His Waking Life
by Mark Daniel
Summary: Takes place generally between seasons 2 and 3. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Goren's complex conundrum

A.N. These characters are not mine.

* * *

**His Waking Life**

* * *

_Chapter One_

* * *

Robert O. Goren was having a remarkably difficult time focusing. Something wasn't right. In other words, things were only slightly off. But whatever was off _per se_, it was ever so subtle. Perhaps it was a remote change in frequency of the otherwise dulcet drones of the department's fluorescent overhead lights. Or was it the curious 'fuzziness' that masked the very clarity of any point of detail on his desktop?

Goren blinked repeatedly, inhaling deeply, determined to catch the faint, yet calming scent of the knee-deep mess of library books stacked to the left of his desk. But when all attempts to regain his focus failed, he swallowed tightly, and began mentally counting backwards from ten - anything to steady the anxiety that was building up slowly in his gut. Post five minutes, he was still sifting aimlessly to find the right set of notes, fingers drumming, legs tapping, knees knocking the metal center drawer of his desk, thump, thump, thump.

As a last ditch effort, he went for his ace card. And when he was certain that his partner was thoroughly engrossed in a stack of their latest suspect's financials, he found an excuse to lean forward to grab something (anything) from his desktop while discreetly inhaling air through his nose around her general proximity. Alexandra Eames (Eames to him) was his most complex conundrum. Oh, but he loved puzzles, mystery, and the magic that it all entailed. Yet there were no words to describe Eames. No, that was an unfair assessment: Eames was _constant _(steady, regular, undeviating, unchanging, loyal, devoted, dependable, true, dedicated, committed - ) and he smiled inwardly at each pronouncement that played from his encyclopedic intellect.

Stealing another glance from behind his desk, it was the expression Eames was wearing that held his eyes, not the dark blue blazer that professionally obscured her ubiquitous sleek tank top. The tips of her bangs cast perfect shadows over high cheekbones. Her brows were knit in concentration, lips pursed with the left side of her mouth slightly curled upwards. It was hard to pin down whether he loved her soft brown eyes more, (obscured now as she worked diligently), or her adorable nose, (it turned upwards ever so slightly).

Indeed, she was his senior partner. Covertly he'd fallen hard for her less than a few years into their partnership. The first time he became aware of his feelings for her was around the time he'd introduced her to his friend Lewis. He felt the queer dichotomy of proudly parading her in front of Lewis, while at the same time he harbored an intense protectiveness of her – or was it unadulterated jealously that gripped his chest. Don't look at her that way Lewis, don't say that you think you're in love, I mean, yes you should know that I work with this amazing woman and yes you should ogle at her in all her wondrous glory. But you are not allowed to look at her like that. Because… because?

"Hey."

"Yeah," his mouth was dry, and he swallowed again, slightly embarrassed to have his thoughts interrupted while he was dwelling upon her in a rather non-professional fashion.

Eames head nodded towards the conference room. He followed her obediently, swallowed again, his nose catching that somewhat distinct scent that could only be her.

He then found himself engrossed in the process of diagramming some obscure flowchart on the whiteboard. He was running out of room to write, the air now had the distinct scent of dry erase markers. He felt giddy as he gesticulated wildly in the air, excited to find some direction at last. She naturally seemed to understand him. To comprehend that he needed space to think, an area to pace: blood moving, and oxygen flowing to his brain. Eames was his best audience, and at last, he had her undivided attention. She squinted her eyes, wrinkled up her nose, nodded when necessary, her gaze intently following his every word, his every explanation (he was her magician. And for the first goddamned time, he got the trick right and pulled off magic without a hitch. And not only did Eames believe in the magic, more importantly she believed in him.) Somewhere in the midst of his intense rant, she smiled warmly, encouraging his wild intellectual musings – and that's when it happened. He felt an odd sensation emanate from his groin, then another, followed by a disorienting warmth originating from the same general area.

And with that, everything disappeared. His eyes fluttered in the darkness of his bedroom. 4:29 am. Sticky, and now uncomfortable cold semen clung to his underware. Even if accompanied by a lurid dream, (which sadly this one was not), he disliked waking up in such an uncomfortable state. Nocturnal emissions were few and far between these days, yet they never failed to take him by surprise.

He sighed, while cleaning up the situation, and resigned himself to a shower, shave and early start to the day. He preferred an early start, and was usually parked at his desk long before a majority of the detectives and working staff arrived. Today, he'd set a new record. In fact, he could have most of their paperwork cleared before she'd have the time to layer out of her winter accessories.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shimmer of light emit from his cell phone milliseconds before the ringer tone reverberated against his eardrum.

"Goren."

"Deakins. I just gotta call from Arthur Branch. We've got a bit of a situation at the Hilton Times Square. You know, a friend of a friend situation. I've already contacted your partner. She'll meet you at the scene. Room 807, and we've _really_ gotta keep this one under wraps. If the media gets wind of this, we're gonna have our hands full Bobby."

Goren nodded into his phone, grabbing his scarf and woolen cao as he prepared himself for what a cold February morning in the city could precipitate.


	2. Room 807

_Chapter Two_

* * *

Slipping inside the rotating doors of the Hilton, Goren felt his earlobes tingle at the sudden change in temperature: from a deep biting cold to being inundated by heated air particles. Quickly, he was guided to one of several elevators, now solely at the service of the NYPD. The additional police presence didn't begin to faze him. This was Major Case.

Crossing the threshold of room 807, he watched forensics swarm the once spacious suite. Blinding flash from a Nikon digital camera aside, he had no trouble spotting Eames. Her petite frame was turned away from the hustle and bustle, her left hand hovering over her left ear, her brow furrowed in concentration. He wondered if Deakins was on the other end of her cell, or perhaps the almighty Arthur Branch? He knew now, as he'd mused before in the past, that being the senior partner had severe disadvantages.

She'd fill him in on the details, no doubt. But just what could Branch's acquaintance be embroiled in? Infidelity? Drugs?

As the bedroom suite came into full view, the victim's body was crudely on display in a scandalous position. This had all the markings of autoerotic asphyxiation; yet, it was good to remain prudent. He knew full well that it could be difficult to ascertain whether this was self-inflicted, (in which their services would not be needed), or murder. Sadly, hotel rooms were notoriously brutal when one needed to obtain accurate and relevant forensics. Everyone and their dog had been in this room, the prior guests, cleaning personnel. It gave him a headache just thinking about it.

He set his jacket aside, (mostly for mobility), and unconsciously unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeves for a closer look. A hotel sheet was fashioned into a makeshift rope, and carefully woven around the corner of the headboard posts: one end in the victim's hand, the other tied neatly around the victim's windpipe, (undoubtedly for maximum pleasure – but only, and again only, if this wasn't staged. These days, he didn't fuck around when it came to a staged homicide. Nicole Wallace had seen to that, and since that time, his self-confidence remained in a precariously fragile state.)

No sooner had the name Nicole Wallace crossed his mind, than he became aware of Eames, her soft brown eyes, studying him from across the room. She'd learned from experience not to startle him, as he had the awful habit of getting so wrapped up in the details of the moment…

As she crossed into the bedroom, her eyes quietly surveying the situation, he was already hovering above the 'vic,' staring into vacant eyes, nose inches away from the deceased's mouth. Another long sniff, he closed his eyes and tried to pinpoint the aroma. Bailey's? Yes. Not Crème de mint.

"Bailey's liquor." It rolled off his tongue before he had the sense to say, 'Hi Eames,' or 'Good morning' or anything a normal human would rattle off.

"Please tell me this isn't what I think it is." Her sarcasm tickled his brain.

"Well, uhh, autoerotic asphyxiation is definitely complex. Often times, individuals will ah, ah, assemble some sort of rescue mechanism. I see no, uh, evidence of such, nor do I see any type of sexual materials or uh, aides, which leads me to believe that someone was with him when he died."

Eames nodded, her eyes on his, causing him to quickly look downwards, his eyelids fluttering rapidly. Of all the gazes in the world, (including the multiple murderers he investigates), he can only manage to meet her eyes but for a few seconds.

"And uh, the sheet is in his left hand, but he's right handed - "

"His gums?" Eames softly interrupted.

Goren nodded emphatically. He loved that she remembered the minute detail he'd relayed to her from a case last year in regards to handedness and dental care.

"That's a relief," Eames brushed her bangs back from her forehead, "for a second I thought I was going to learn more than I wanted to know about handedness."

"There's also no indication of struggle, or orgasm for that matter, but uh," Goren paused mid-thought, tilting his head to the right, "the uh, the intense oxygen-deprived high often peaks before an orgasm can be reached."

"So, we'll need Roger's help on this one before we can ultimately determine whether Branch should be all over our behinds."

Again Goren nodded in affirmation, while grabbing his binder in order to make some additional notations. Lost in his handiwork, he didn't hear her phone ring.

"Eames, Major Case." She answered.

He briefly glanced up in time to see her turn away from him, as if protecting him from the next obtrusive, bureaucratic phone call. After a few nods, she shifts her head in the direction of the door and flips her cell phone lid shut.

"They just got the security tape footage from the elevators and specifically this floor. Do you need more time here with the vic?"

Goren shook his head definitively and started picking at the fingers of his medical gloves. He absolutely detested the white powdery residue that covered his hands, but the real kicker was the overpowering aroma of the rubbery material that would rob his olfactory system for the duration of the day.

Quickly, they navigated to the hotel's security room, stopping outside the second floor lobby to share the now room temperature coffee's he'd lugged across town for her. The bag of pastries, now much flatter and grossly misshapen, was pulled from his left pocket overcoat.

"It's the thought that counts." Her eyes twinkle when she teases.

"So, how hard are they coming down on you?"

"About as expected…" she pauses to swallow another lukewarm mouthful, "but it's Branch that's nosing around more than I'm comfortable with."

"Shouldn't he be directing his energies to our captain?"

"Oh, he is. But somehow he just happened to get my personal line too."

"Oh."

"Branch wants the best, and Deakins is giving him just that." She winks at him, raising her left eyebrow.

With anyone else, the comment and gesture could be deemed patronizing, and after his latest encounter with Nicole, it may have bordered on obvious fawning. With Eames, (who always filtered what she said with his delicate sensibilities in mind), her expression came across as truly authentic, and it was the kind of sweet unselfish compassion he'd come to graciously expect from her.

Her cell phone came to life yet again, she nodded to him and raised her coffee cup in appreciation, before squaring her shoulders away from him: doing what she could to shield his ears from the insanity of politics and interdepartmental relationships.

For but a moment, he had a chance to eyeball the garish interior of the posh hotel; oversized suede furniture placed conservatively around an area rug. His reflection in the expanse of a substantial mirror stared back at him. And what he sees, gives him pause, forcing him to reflect on the conundrum known as Eames. He wants her badly, but having a relationship with Eames outside of their partnership presented _at least_ five major flaws.

_1. Why would Eames want him? _He was not an attractive man. The mirror standing in front of him proved that. His older brother Frank had inherited most of the non-ethnic traits (in his humble opinion). He had a stubby nose, hollow eyes, and looked like your standard New York mafia associated bouncer.

_2. Currently, his relationship with Eames was all-things perfect._ Attempting to change their relationship was too great a risk to take. He'd never had a partner like her, and it was unlikely he'd ever find this chemistry again. He rationalized that he needed her more as a partner, than he wanted her as a, a…? Fuck. What did he want her to be? Whatever it was, it would clearly present itself to be a conflict of interest and against NYPD policy.

_3. Eames already lost a beloved husband._ He'd seen their wedding photo on a sideboard in the entryway of her apartment. Together, they were beautiful, normal, happy and in love. In a relationship with Eames, he would only pale in comparison to Joe; moreover, it was unlikely Eames would want to revisit marriage, especially with another cop.

_4. Eames was physically tiny, w_hile, on the other hand, he was an overgrown ape. The top of her head barely came into line with his shoulders. In the bedroom, he was afraid he'd literally crush her.

_5. What could he possibly give her?_ In some ways, Nicole was partially correct. Goren had avoided marriage and long-term relationships because he _was _afraid that he'd have no choice but to turn into his father. He didn't want kids; he'd only screw them up. His family _was_ dysfunction, and in the end, he was convinced that dysfunction was all he could bring to a long-term relationship.

He pulled his eyes away from the reflection of the 'misfit' in the mirror. Before long Eames turned towards him, the cell call still active in her hand, "it's all good," she mouthed silently to him, tugging gently at his arm as they rounded into the security room.


	3. Do you have a minute to talk?

_Chapter Three_

* * *

Goren liked to watch, and he was good at it. Today, however, the surveillance video from Hilton's security team was proving to be less than helpful. He'd been stuck in the cramped NYPD digital lab for hours, studying the black and white footage undaunted. Unfortunately, a majority of the hotel's security cameras only detailed traffic through the elevators. The problem was in regards to the stairwells. They were out of range or located at such a distance, that little information was transmitted. The equipment at 1PP had an enhancement function that worked with extreme zooms, but often times the results were too pixilated, and even the finest details were often impossible for the human eye to render.

Goren felt a hand come to rest on his right shoulder, a gentle touch: Eames' touch. He pressed the pause button, and shifted towards her, only to find that his thighs, butt and left foot had painfully fallen asleep.

"Anything useful?" Eames quietly probed.

"Well, our 'vic,' I mean, uh, Meyers can be seen randomly coming in and out of room 807 at several different times throughout the day. It's easy to identify him, because, uh, because he uses one of the three central elevators located on his floor. The security cameras are set up in such a way that assumes everyone uses the elevators."

"I certainly wouldn't want to 'hoof it' up those stairs." Eames commented.

"Cleaning personnel have uh, access to a larger utility elevator on the north side of the building. But the uh, security cameras are not set up in good range to make much out at their location either."

"So you think he used the stairs?"

"Well, if he didn't want to 'hoof it,' all he'd have to do is get off on any of the floors just above or below the right level and before transferring to the stairwell."

"So _you've seen_ someone come from the stairwell and enter his room?"

"On two different occasions."

Eames smiled and gave him a pat on the back, "I'll have Jesse get additional security tapes that cover the elevators on all suspicious floors."

Minutes later, after stretching his legs and splitting a Kit Kat bar with Eames, Goren sat down at his desk and sketched a mini layout of all the elevators and stairwell entrances on Meyer's floor. He carefully recorded the times and dates that Meyer's left his room, paying close attention to the details on the night of the 'supposed murder.' He drew a demarcation line before adding information in regards to the 'other' guy or gal who'd also entered room 807. His best guess was that it was a man, based on body movement, general shape and size, but the visuals from the security tape had been too vague to make a real call.

He ignored the red light on his phone that indicated he had new messages, but was unable to block out the powerful aroma of Deakins' aftershave lotion.

"Okay, so here's what I've got so far. Rogers should have a prelim on the 'vic' in about an hour. I've got a promising forensics report that has strong indications of a second party, and I hear that you've got an interesting read on the security tapes." Deakins summarized.

"Uh, yes, I believe the suspect did their homework. They certainly made the effort to go unnoticed."

"True. But in the case of infidelity, people have been known to go to great lengths." Deakins interjected.

"But captain," Eames intervened, "not only was this guy married, just look at his connections. The Manhattan D.A.? Yankees and Rangers box seats? A relationship on the 'down low' is one thing, but why would a lover leave their high-powered mate high and dry? With the details Bobby picked up on, um, like 'handedness' or the vic's 'lack of orgasm' – I feel confident we have a little more going on than a scandalous affair gone wrong."

"Well then, get on it and talk to the wife. I'll have one of the IT boys send you an electronic version of Rogers' preliminary report."

Eames was in the process of calling Mrs. Meyers to set up a time where they could have their tete a tete with the recently made widow. This gave Goren the time to sift through his voice mail. 1. Lewis, (Jesus, I told him not to call me on my work line). 2. His mother, (Yes Mom, of course I will. We'll talk about it on Sunday, okay? Okay? Yeah, I know, it's never okay). 3. NYPL, his books, one on autoerotic asphyxiation, and the other pertaining to unusual sexual behavior, plus a rare Van Gogh biography were available for him to pick up at the library.

So by the time they'd been turned away from Mrs. Meyers, (she wouldn't be seen today as she was still to upset about the news, and she would only talk while her over-paid lawyer was present), poured over the preliminary autopsy, (looks like murder Eames!), reviewed the forensics report (while eating vendor dogs he'd purchased outside 1PP), they'd finally received the additional security footage.

Sadly, the day had come and gone, and the eleventh floor was starting to look barren. Deakins was still in his office, on the phone, diplomatically holding the media at bay. Eames was winding down too, he could tell when she was beat.

"I'll stay and finish up these tapes."

"No Bobby, we'll have time before the Meyer's interview to review them. We _both_ need to get out of here. You took the subway right? Look, it's too damned cold out today, I'll give you a lift."

"Can we drop off at the library on the way?"

Eames smiled wearily, "sure."

On the few occasions where they carpooled home together, there was an unsaid rule of not talking about work on the ride home. Most of the time, however, they failed miserably.

Eames kept glancing out of the corner of her eye at the books he'd just checked out, "you're gonna go home and read those right now, aren't you?"

"I think I'll work on this one first."

"Sexual Crimes and Unusual Sexual Practices?"

He nodded. "Understanding Meyer's proclivities will uh, really help rule out that this was self-inflicted. It will also help me ask the right questions when the time comes to have our sit down with the wife. Rogers usually outlines the physiological reasons quite well, but since there was uh, there was little evidence of struggle and no signs of drugs in his system . . . it leads me to believe that Meyers probably participated in this sexual practice before, and was eager to try it again."

"Eager to try something that could easily kill him if he didn't have the right fail safes in place?"

"Well, although it is generally an unusual sexual practice for uh, the obvious reasons, it is highly addictive. Some compare the experience to heroin usage, or their first cocaine high, uh, when applied correctly and accompanied by orgasm."

Eames shook her head as she digested her partner's explanation. It seemed like an eternity passed and still no words came between them. About a half a block away from his apartment in Brooklyn, Eames finally broke the silence, "So, um, do you have a minute to talk?"

"Oh. Uh, sure. You want to grab a drink?"

"No Bobby. But thanks. I, well, you see, um, it's been so busy at work, especially with this new case, and I feel like I haven't had a second to myself during the day, much less the privacy to talk to you."

"Well, I uh, I-I suppose you could come up. I have tea and uh, hot chocolate? It's just a mix."

She smiled warmly, "that'll be fine."

Immediately he knew something was up. His anxiety switched on and his body quickly responded: palms suddenly clammy against his binder and books. What was Eames going to tell him? She sounded too nervous for Eames, which in turn made him extremely nervous. Was she going to leave the department? Was she going to leave him? His heart raced, and he felt his pulse pounding in his ears. He closed his eyes, counting slowly in his head – as he broke down her every movement: parallel parking the car, reverse, back into drive for a minor correction, car in park, Eames pauses before buttoning the top buttons of her jacket, pulls her scarf tighter, adjusts her wool cap, opens her door, closes it and hits her key fob to lock the doors.

Once inside his apartment building, he resigns himself to the elevator. He never uses it unless he _has_ too. Goren knows that Eames won't want to walk up all those steps. She doesn't share his claustrophobia.

Cocooned in the elevator, the door 'wooshes' shut behind him. He watches her closely. Her eyes are so telling, they are all a glow and brimming with emotion. Sometimes, he loathes the fact that he reads people so well. Something is definitely up - or different. He rubs his fingers together: his forefinger and thumb in a circular pattern, again and again and again. He fears the unknown, although it's difficult to say if he fears what she is about to tell him more than the fear he has of this damned elevator.


	4. Inside the elevator

_Chapter Four_

* * *

He tries hard not to stare at her as the elevator lifts. Her eyes are downcast. Goren is aware that this is a common human behavior when riding in an elevator. People either scan their feet or they watch the numbers change from floor to floor. Eye contact is generally avoided. But he likes to watch, and Eames knows this. Tonight, however, she seems disconcerted by his otherwise normal behavior - not that he's ever acted totally normal in an elevator, or anywhere for that matter.

Before he can finish his observation, the elevator abruptly stops. Before he or Eames can muster any human sound, before his heart takes another beat, the elevator drops. Not drops, it fucking free-falls. Before he can swallow his breath or even register his own death, the elevator instantaneously stops again with a sick metallic clunk. Maybe they had plummeted but five measly feet, but his ears are ringing with the fear of death.

For a few seconds, he can't register anything, including Eames. He's not even sure if he cried "Jesus," aloud or in his head. He can barely breath.

Without warning, Eames' voice cuts through the air, drawing him back to reality.

"Dammit. We're between floors. These buttons don't seem to want to respond."

"Oh no," Goren finally found his voice, making a motion towards her that said in so many ways to stop punching buttons, "No, uh, no we don't want to move again I think," he managed to croak out.

That's when his brain finally started firing on all fours. Last month, his neighbor Mrs. Sequeira had been stuck in here for over two hours. And that was during normal business hours.

He watched as Eames pressed the button on the emergency communication panel.

"I uh, don't think that, um, hang on. Let me call my 'super.'"

"Can you catch a signal?"

"I just hope it's not going to kick out to voice mail," he gasps, clumsily punching up the numbers while muttering, "if it weren't for rent control."

"There's always 9-1-1," Eames offers lightly.

"It's ringing," he exclaimed, "pick up, pick up, pick – uh, yes. This is Robert Goren. Yes, that apartment building. I'm stuck in the elevator. Uh, my partner and I are stuck between floors. Third and fourth I believe. We need immediate assistance. Yes."

Goren shook his head in disbelief, "Do we need immediate assistance Eames?"

"Will they be here soon?" Eames queried.

"I hope so," he sighed, "one of my neighbors was stuck in here for over two hours last month. So I can only assume that - "

"Oh no. We do not have two hours." Eames passionately interjected.

"I wholeheartedly agree."

"No, Bobby, I mean - " she paused and looked more disconcerted than he'd ever seen her. The worry in her eyes was such that it displaced his own fears: heights, elevators and all small enclosures for that matter.

He moved closer, leaned in, eyes focusing on her, "Eames?"

"Well," she sighed, "this isn't quite how I thought I'd tell you."

He cocked his head to the left, swallowed and exhaled deeply as he braced himself for the news.

"Bobby, I'm pregnant."

His eyes narrowed in shock, "I'm sorry?"

"I'm pregnant. Um, early stages, but just long enough that it looks like it's going to stick."

"Oh." He didn't know what to say. A second after the word pregnancy registered, he'd wondered if it was his? No of course not, you idiot. Unless you can impregnate her in your dreams! Was it planned? Was it a boyfriend? Did she have a 'steady' and not tell him? Did it matter? As long as she didn't quit and stayed his partner, right? Could that work? So many goddamned questions.

"It's not mine," Eames explained quietly.

Not his. Not hers. So that's why she turned down the drink. Wait! Not hers?

"I'm a surrogate. A surrogate for my sister and um, I wanted you to be the first to know, because um, outside of myself, and my family of course, you'll be the first one to be affected by this decision."

He nodded his head numbly, clearly uncertain how he should respond to the news.

"It's funny, you know," she laughed nervously, "I almost thought I should consult you on this one. You know, like I should have asked you if it was okay."

"No Eames. It's none of my business really."

"But it affects you. And I don't want you in the dark about anything between us. You're my partner, and I take that very seriously."

He didn't know what he was feeling inside. He felt emotional though; this was a big sacrifice Eames was taking. In essence, it seemed very much like something she'd do – it's just the kind of human being Eames was, and, it was one of the many reasons he loved her.

And there it was. Once again she was letting him into her world with no strings attached, a concept that was so foreign to him.

"Congratulations to you and your sister," he offered warmly, lowering himself slightly as he moved in to embrace her. With his knees bent, she was able to rest her chin on his right shoulder.

He felt her relax in his arms, as if all the pent up stress of having to tell him dissipated with his acceptance. He rested his cheek on the crown of her head, and closed his eyes so that he could soak in the moment and allow all his other sense to carefully imprint this moment in his mind: a bona fide five-sense photograph.

Why, he wondered over and over, just why, would _he_ have the power to calm her, relax her? This bizarre revelation would keep him awake for hours over the next few weeks.

When she pulled away, she smiled and sniffed, her eyes bright and shiny, "I didn't know how you'd react."

"You're not going to leave the department, right? I mean, well, except when you have the baby and all, but you'll come back?"

"Of course, I'll stay on as long as I can," she looked at her stomach, there were still no outward signs to his knowledge, "there will be about six to eight weeks after I have the baby, where I'll have to keep mostly to desk work, but we'll figure it out."

He nodded and pulled out his cell again, to get an updated E.T.A.

"I don't know if I have two hours Bobby."

He looked up at her quickly when he heard the tone in her voice.

"Lately, I haven't been able to go that long without taking a pee. I was going to use your apartment and um, well this could prove embarrassing."

It's all the info he needed. He used his manipulative talents to effectively put some heat on his 'super.' Suffice to say, once he tossed out the fact that his partner was pregnant, assistance came in time for Eames to use an actual toilet.

When all was said and done however, it seemed a safe bet that after tonight, it was unlikely that Eames would ever come up to his apartment again.

It had been a long, long, emotional day. He carefully separated and hung up his warm outer gear, pulled off his tie, and immediately returned it to his tie rack. His suit coat, dress shirt, and pants were stuffed neatly into his dry cleaning bag – all thoroughly soiled as he felt like he sweat more today, (ironically on one of the coldest days of the year), than he'd had since he'd had basketball practice as a kid. It was one of his least favorite smells, so he cinched the bag tightly and mentally noted to take it and drop it off first thing in the morning.

Socks, undershirt, and underware all went into the laundry bin before he marched straight to the shower.

Sleep took over quickly as soon as his head hit the pillow. His waking life slowly faded into the realm of dreams.


	5. Eames lights the fuse

_Chapter Five_

* * *

A soft knocking noise emanated from outside his apartment door. He didn't want to move, sleep had come so easily. The knocking stopped. Good, he thought, it can't be anyone important. It certainly wasn't Eames. Eames was much more persistent than that. Perhaps it was his 'super' dropping by to see if Goren was going to report the incident. In any case, Eames should be home by now, recovering from the evening.

Eames, he pondered dreamily, the thought of her little pointed nose and soft sweet eyes, made him smile. Why had she been so nervous about telling him? Why did his approval matter? Why had she found relief in his arms?

Then he heard a distinct noise: the deadbolt? Turning slowly . . . click! No, he must be dreaming. Nonetheless Goren's paranoia won over, he slowly sat up, before pulling the robe from his side chair – it was too damn cold to go around in anything else. Peering out his bedroom doorway, he recognized his partner's profile standing just inside the door. Had he given her a key? In his half-waking state he honestly couldn't remember.

"Eames?"

"Bobby?" she called out softly.

Something was off. For the second time that evening, her voice didn't sound quite right. Wait a minute. What was she doing here? Was he dreaming?

"What's wrong?"

"I couldn't – I couldn't go home." Eames answered with great uncertainty, her face mostly obscured by her delicate bangs, that and the night shadows that slowly ebbed across his apartment walls.

Even under nighttime illumination, Goren could detect that her right hand was still resting on the door handle, trembling ever so slightly. He blinked twice to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.

"Guess I'm too keyed up."

Goren nodded, but remained cautiously silent, watching her intently at a safe distance. He was terrified of her when she was acting outside her role as his senior partner. He knew there was a delicate balance, he knew that he should respect the boundaries that had been drawn for them: lest he destroys their perfect equilibrium and take any forbidden risk that could do irreparable damage to their mutualistic symbiosis.

In their relationship Eames had always been the strong one, the one who was put together correctly, so to speak. Now what? Was he, the junior partner, supposed to take charge? As far as he could remember, Eames had never let her guard down. She was the one who held him upright when he had gone too far, when he'd been overzealous, immature, cocky, boorish, and temperamental.

Eames was the one to pick him up when he'd been knocked down – and yes, the 'giant' had taken a few falls (goddamned Nicole) and when he fell this last time, it hurt like a mother-fucker. She'd stood by him in the face of Deakins, Carver and about every detective in the force. At times, Eames had gone one step further: as she always defended him and even attacked when necessary (always stellar and thoroughly professional).

Well, tonight was clearly the exception. And no, he wasn't hallucinating, and goddamned if he wasn't going to be there for her too. Maybe this was something about the pregnancy?

He moved towards her, and for half a pace, he was afraid she was going to turn the doorknob, and run back out.

"Eames, come in, come in," he mumbled, his mouth still numb from sleep. He pulled her gently into his small one bedroom apartment, noticing that her hands were tiny, and very warm.

Because he didn't own a couch, he shoved a pile of books off his armchair and motioned for her to sit down. He turned on a side lamp and studied her closely to get a better read on her. He'd never used his talent of 'getting inside people's heads,' on her, as he considered such an action indecent. But, then again, he'd never seen her like this. It kind of freaked him out, because she looked so worried.

"Eames?"

"Dammit," Eames muttered quietly under her breath.

"Look, Bobby," she whispered, the fingers of her left hand massaging her left temple. It didn't take a detective to see that she was really struggling with this. "I don't know if this, um, I'm so sorry to do this to you."

He watched her carefully, anxiety slowly building from his core. (Christ, did she change her mind? Was she rethinking staying on as his partner?)

"I know I have my sister and family for a support, but, well um, there are so many things," she paused again, "so many things are changing inside of me."

At that she softly laughed, "I didn't mean it quite like that, I'm talking about the emotional burden this is taking."

Suddenly he gasped sharply like an idiot, he didn't realize he'd been holding his breath and clenching his teeth for such a period that the carbon-dioxide air was literally forced out of him. "Sorry," he muttered.

He watched her rise out of his armchair, approaching him straight on. Her eyes were wide, and directly on his – never wavering. Immediately he lowered his eyes and submitted to her embrace. She hugged him fiercely arcing upwards, perhaps on her tip-toes, before settling her head into the crook of his neck. He felt the grey-tipped hairs on the back of his head rise as she spoke in a low voice just below his ear, "I never knew how much I cared about you until tonight," she paused before adding, "or how much my condition would, I mean, I don't know if this a biological thing, but I feel like I need a man in my life right now – one that I trust, one that I know will be there for me during this nine month trip."

Well, speaking of biological, he could think of a few things that were speaking to him biologically. He could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He had to stay in control, but he didn't know how. I mean, when she said she wanted a man, did that mean that she wanted him sexually? Honestly, that's all he could think about right now, yet he was too afraid to ask. With so much to process, he decided to throw it all to the fates. If she made any remotely physical move towards him, well, who was he to say no? It was meant to be. On the other hand, if she didn't want his sexual advances, he could stand there all night with her in his arms if that's what she wanted.

As his brain fired question after question, he felt her right hand move towards the base of his back. His pulse raced as he wondered frantically if this was a green light. (Christ, are you going to fuck this up? _You_ are going to sleep with her – a pregnant woman? You are seriously going to do this when you know that this could be a hormonal thing? And not just any pregnant woman. This is Eames. Are you half asleep?)

Yes. He was half asleep, but the ball had already started rolling, and his hormones were past the point of no return. He pressed his nose into her hair (god, he'd never been this close) and took in her scent (oh my) he felt his blood pooling south, a tight pulsing sensation reverberating between his legs and now knew he'd never be able to back out now.

And it was hard to retrace most of the events that followed: how they found their way to his room, how he laid her in the middle of his bed pulling off winter outerwear piece by piece, and laying them out neatly on the nightstand beside them. Her eyes laughed as she watched his rather OCD-like behavior. He smiled right back at her, as everything about her was infectious.

When he pulled off his robe, she laughed sweetly, "I never would have imagined you'd wear a pajama thing."

"What? Oh, it gets cold in here because I uh, well I-I often forget to turn the heat up."

"No time like the present." And then to punctuate her sassy remark, she ran the tip of her adorable little cold nose along the edge of his jawline. And that was the precise moment he lost all control of the situation.

And she wasn't helping. So they both stopped talking, and just went for it.

After a thorough investigation of her body, he decided that she was definitely the most petite woman he'd ever been. Even pregnant, he could detect few changes in her. There was no swell in her belly, but she told him that she'd been most impressed with the changes to her breasts, something about them being darker, constantly upright and slightly swollen. Wonderful was all he could process. So wonderful.

And then there was no more foreplay to be had. He was more than ready. He knew she was too. His pulse raced and here he was at long last, hovering precariously on hand and knee above her. Her face was both playful and sweet, her arms coaxing him as though she openly welcomed being crushed beneath him. His muscles tensed, and he hesitated as her hands moved lower down his back.

"What's wrong?"

"I-I'm a little uh," he shook his head trying to find the right words.

"Well let's give it a try."

"Uh, you know are you sure, uh h-have you been cleared by the doctor to, uh, I mean, I can't throw this pregnancy off, right?"

"No, and honestly, I don't know how pregnant couples would do it if they had to abstain for nine months."

"I just want to be certain."

"I know that we won't need birth control."

Enough said. Everything worked out fine. I mean, well it was rough around the edges as most things are when you are trying something new together. She was quick to release, generally highly aroused (which she suggested afterwards was a also a result of this new pregnancy thing) and she was oh-so-wonderful: her smell, her sexuality, her sensuality. Everything was all so overwhelming to his delicate senses.

He'd say he was in love, but that was an obtuse thought at best. Deep in his psyche, he knew full well that he'd been in love with her before he'd had this sublime opportunity.

And if he were to dwell on the experience, (and yes, all he wanted to do was dwell on it), she was generally perfect. He'd faulted himself for being a bit more clumsy than he usually was, as he was still fearful of physically hurting her. And he wanted to trust her, but he didn't know her in such an intimate way, he couldn't really read her in this type of setting. So after the surprise of her peaking so quickly, he finally did relax, find a rhythm and climax. Long story short, mirroring their partnership, he put too much thought into it – and as usual, intuitively, she went with it.

But, oh, being able to release into her, there were no words for it. It was that unsaid communication between them, all their unspoken words, thoughts and emotions shared together for the very first time. It was _complete_.

Now he was sleeping ever so sound, no dreams, no thoughts, just a lovely warm fuzzy feeling radiating from his core.

It wasn't until he heard her stir and flush the toilet that he was taken away from his euphoric inner state. He felt her lips brush against his forehead, so he slowly sat up.

"Hey, I better get going."

He squinted his eyes, "Eames, it's not yet five in the morning."

"I wasn't prepared to stay here tonight. Being that this was, um, a spontaneous thing. But if I get going now I'm sure I can beat traffic."

He knew she was right even though he so wanted her to stay just a little longer, they could wake up together and then he'd know this wasn't a dream.

"I'll meet you outside of Lenny's bagels? 8:30 a.m?"

He nodded his head, and took her hand in his, "Eames," he breathed, "you were amazing."

She smiled and squeezed his hand.

"Is it going to be okay between us?"

"Yeah," she sighed, "let's take it one day at a time. If it's getting weird and it interferes with work, than we'll need to address it I guess."

He nodded before kissing the inside of her palm.

"I honestly don't know what happened tonight Bobby," Eames leaned in to meet his gaze, " but it just felt right, it felt um, natural."

"I, uh - " he began, but stopped himself before he said something that might make this situation even more complex.

"I'm glad it happened. And I won't ever regret it," she added, before kissing him rather chastely on his lips.

He smiled quickly, trying hard not to convey the worry that was coming back to pass. Had he just made the greatest mistake of his life? She could handle this. Could he?

He awoke a few hours later to the hateful beeping of his alarm. His robe lay next to his bed neatly draped over the chair. His flannels and underwear lay rumpled in a heap at the foot of the bed.

As he began his morning ritual, shower, shave etc., he felt himself slowly spiraling out of control. What would it be like to face her this morning? Eames said that if it felt weird or interfered with work that, that they would be able to work it out. Shit. It already felt weird. His heart dropped in his chest. He'd done it again. He'd fucked it all up. Now was the moment of truth: would his fantasy of finally having carnal knowledge of Eames be worth losing the familiarity of her as a partner?

After dropping off his dry cleaning, he took the subway to meet her uptown. He stopped in at Lenny's, but it was still too early to buy her coffee and pastries, so he sat down with his own brew and began pouring through his books. He tried to get his mind back into his role of being her junior partner, but all he could think about was how goddamned intoxicating she was last night.

"Eames," he said under his breath, and he shook his head violently in order to remove her from his mind. Pen curled tightly in his southpaw, he forced himself to write out a few more questions to ask Meyer's widow. It was going to be a very long day indeed.


	6. Meet Mrs Meyers

_Chapter Six_

* * *

Adrienne Meyers lived an opulent existence. Her apartment afforded her all the comforts most New Yorkers would not take for granted. He couldn't help but notice that her decorator had a unique take on aesthetics, and that the home was fitted with an expensive collection of modern art and sculpture. Adrienne or the late Mr. Meyers may very well have been a serious collector.

"I'm detective Goren, and this is detective Eames," he announced as he was introduced to Mrs. Meyers and her lawyer. As they all entered the living area, he noticed two other people in the apartment, a live-in assistant who was busy cleaning up the kitchen, and a rather large fellow who was standing indiscreetly in the corner of the living room.

Goren tipped his head towards Eames before she could sit down on a sofa opposite Adrienne Meyers and her lawyer, "the guy in the corner," he whispered, his line of sight directing her gaze.

"Ex-cop?" Eames spoke under her breath.

"Looks like it," Goren nodded, sitting just to the left of Eames.

"So we've got both the brains and the brawn to keep their eyes on us." Eames muttered smugly.

As the meeting was to commence, the nervous energy in the room was palpable; he felt his own intensity level rising from deep within his core. He was ready to start this meeting, his confidence in tact.

No need to 'beat around the bush,' the main reason his confidence was back was because of her. The woman that came to pick him up from Lenny's bagels was the 'familiar' Eames: his senior partner, his 'constant.' Right off the bat, she'd smiled at him, accepted the pastries, turned down the coffee because of the caffeine and some pregnancy related thing, and then much to his relief, it was all business.

Now they were ready for their one-two punch. He'd start off as the good cop, the off-beat guy whose job was to 'get the suspect off their game.' Fuck with them a little and watch as their planned answers came undone.

Eames would play the, I-don't-take-bullshit, bad cop. They would interchange roles back and forth after the initial attack, often confusing their suspect. This helped them find out how their suspect would react, and who their suspect would be drawn to trusting first, and whoever earned that lucky role, would play into the façade and boom! Ahh, it was a beautiful thing – and so thrilling when they hit their groove.

No time like the present.

"Is that a Pollock?" his left pointer finger wagged erratically before pointing directly at the canvas above the fireplace, drawing all eyes to the centerpiece of the room.

"Why, yes," Adrienne smiled proudly, "yes, this is a little known piece Jackson painted in the late forties."

"I, uh," he gestured frenetically, "I was always, you know, drawn to the great movement and chaos present in his pieces. His work was um, you know, it was such a breakthrough."

She smiled again, and he could sense her shields were lowering. Now to bait…

"But critiques of his work have not been kind over the years, mostly about his overly 'mechanical and impersonal techniques.' In fact, I believe the _Times_ recently broke that his motivation to paint was derived upon his deep mistrust of anything but the immediate given sensation,"

He watched Adrienne's face morph from feigned pleasantness to severe irritation. He also couldn't help but notice that Eames wasn't even remotely fazed by his random collection of knowledge. The old Eames would role her eyes, the new Eames just . . . well, she understood.

"So Mrs. Meyers," Eames immediately interjected, "why was your husband staying at a hotel in Times Square?"

He noticed that Adrienne had to look at her attorney before she answered the question.

"Oh, he was attending a conference downtown, and, uh his company had several suites available . . ."

"Does he attend these conferences often?" Eames continued.

"Well, yes, I mean, he's busy and sometimes he works late, so it's convenient," Adrienne rattled on, still glancing at her attorney every few seconds, "I mean, that's not unusual you know."

"What's unusual is an experienced man dying from autoerotic asphyxiation, Mrs. Meyers," he chided, noticing the big guy in the corner fidgeting a bit out of the corner of his eye, "I mean, an inexperienced young man between his teens and at best early twenties might have an accident unsupervised, but a man your husbands' age? Or is there perhaps an alternate reason besides a work conference that your husband, uh Jason, would need a room?"

"Detective, you are bordering on inappropriate," her attorney hissed.

"It's okay Warren," Adrienne's eyes narrowed in on his as she spoke, "Detective Goren is correct, this _is_ a murder investigation, is it not? Arthur Branch told me personally that he would send his best detectives on the force to ensure my husband's good name. What you said detective is true, Jason didn't need, uh, wouldn't resort to such perversities, he didn't need to. He and I share a fruitful relationship in the bedroom. He's a workaholic, he just needs the extra room as not to disturb me – he's a night owl you see, and …"

"So, Mrs. Meyers," Eames interjected, "do you have any idea why someone would choose to place Jason's body in such a compromised fashion?"

"I have no idea, except for public humiliation."

"Public humiliation is uh, very personal, and usually inflicted by someone the victim has had an extensive relationship with, uh, it could be a personal or business relationship, so uh, did Jason have a falling out with anyone that uh, knew him well?" He spoke with his eyes lowered, but in fact he was studying Adrienne's next response closely.

"No, no," Adrienne blinked twice, and refused to meet his eyes, "Jason would never associate with someone who could treat him so cruelly."

His suspicions were met, and he now felt like he had some direction to begin probing – and all signs pointed to this peculiar woman, one who had to be significantly younger than her now dead husband.

Eames peppered a few more routine questions, before the meeting officially adjourned.

Adrienne stood up to see them out, and as her attorney seemed occupied jotting down some notes, he decided to see if he could isolate her and get more of what he needed from the quirky widow.

"So Mrs. Meyers, was Jason the collector, or you?"

"It's one of the things that brought us together. We met at the MoMA . . ."

"Very romantic, uh, and are most of the pieces, uh, like the Pollock, his?"

"Ours. Sure Jason was collecting before I met him, but together, we've been able to build our personal collection quite a bit."

"And so there was no contention in his will about who would keep the collection?"

"There are a few pieces his son will inherit, but frankly Jay hasn't shown any interest in his father's love of modern art."

"Jay? I wasn't aware that you and Jason had a son, uh, you never mentioned it, and I haven't seen any photos of Jay, or evidence of a child living in your apartment."

"Jay, my step-son, is a junior at Harvard, he doesn't live at home anymore, and he hasn't yet returned for the services. He'll be flying in later tonight; Bill will be picking him up from La Guardia.

"And Bill is your…?"

"Bill is a friend of the family who has acted as a bodyguard for both myself and Jason in the past."

He nodded, noticing that good old Bill's ears seemed to perk up at the mention of his name. Bill was now heading towards their general proximity.

"Does Bill's have a background in private security?" He was rushing a bit now, trying to get her to answer a few more questions without her team being present.

It was too late.

"I worked for NYPD. I know all your tactics," Bill interjected.

"I _was_ asking her." He countered.

"Oh yeah, smart guy? I think she was showing you the door."

The posturing was obvious. Eames brushed past him, (he could smell her scent and it severely distracted him for a few seconds), and she continued towards the door, pretending to ignore any of the previous interchanges.

"Smart guys stay with a real pension plan." He should have shown restraint, but he couldn't.

A second earlier and perhaps the altercation would not have presented itself, for they had just crossed the threshold of the Meyer's apartment when Goren shot off his 'pension plan' comment. And of course, Bill was less than thrilled, perhaps enraged was the right word. But Goren wasn't expecting Adrienne's 'muscle' to take his comment personally. That's one of the reasons Goren was off balance when Bill shoved him from behind.

This is also the point where things snowballed. Goren lost his balance when Bill shoved him out of the doorway, and that's when Goren accidentally bumped (more like knocked) Eames off her feet. Eames. This asshole made him knock down Eames, and Eames was pregnant.

"Hey!" Goren hollered sharply, his hands wavering aimlessly to maintain his balance as he rushed over to Eames. He knelt by her, and guided her to a sitting position.

"Are you okay?"

Eames looked pissed. There was a crease in her brow, and the lines around her mouth accentuated a deep frown, "I'm okay," she managed.

After he heard the two words that he needed to hear from her, he leapt from her side and rushed Bill who was expecting his advances.

Bill blocked Goren's left hook and then used the element of surprise to take his right shoulder into Goren's chest. Within the next half-second, Goren felt an explosion of pain in his right thigh. Bill 'shinned' him directly on his mid-quadricep, square on his femoral artery.

This guy was clearly NYPD trained, and due to the accuracy of Bill's shin, Goren nearly blacked out from the pain, doubling over on the ground to get out of Bill's kicking range and catch his breath.

In the near background, Goren could barely make out Adrienne's high-pitched voice, Eames' irritated tone and Bill's defensive justifications.

The first thing he was aware of was Eames soft, tiny hand on his shoulder, "Can you walk?"

He nodded first, put weight on his leg, and then wheezed out, "give me a second."

Goren could tell by the tone in her voice that Eames was still highly irate. She was trying to sound calm, but he knew the tone well.

And it had all been going so well.


	7. Going downhill

_Chapter Seven_

* * *

"Do you need medical?" Eames breath condensed visibly, as she watched him limp out of the corner of her eye. Her tone had lightened slightly, almost imperceptibly, but he could tell she was only starting to cool down after the altercation with Meyer's hired help, Bill Rheas.

Goren shook his head, slumping against the apartment building's walls.

"Then lets get going. It's freezing out here," she huffed, pulling her collar tighter.

He was about to cast a dirty look at the doorman who was getting way too much amusement at his misfortune, (the German word, _Schadenfreude_, came to his mind), when he spied the kitchen assistant from Mrs. Meyer's apartment in the alley conjoining the building with the adjacent complex to the right.

He tugged on Eames' jacket, "Eames, it's the other hired help."

Goren hobbled over to the east side of the apartment building, it was gated, but he recognized the older (Mandarin speaking?) woman literally taking out Adrienne Meyer's trash. He decided to give it a whirl.

"_Jie guo_," he called out to the older woman, "_ni hao, wo jiao_ . . . "

"Detective, I speak English," she smiled and added, "your pronunciation is _hen hao_."

"_Xie xie_," lowering his head ever so slightly, "could I have a word with you about your uh, boss?"

Eames, who was several paces behind him, pulled out the buzzing cell phone from her pocket and motioned back towards her car. He nodded back to her before re-engaging the hired help.

"Sorry, ma'am, um, about your boss. Have you been working for the Meyers long?"

"Three years."

"And how would you describe Mrs. Meyers' relationship with Mr. Meyers?"

"Her relationship?" the petite woman laughed sharply, "he is never here. In my country we call it a marriage of arranged convenience."

Goren chuckled softly, a knowing smile crossed his lips.

"Did you ever work here, uh, when the son Jay, lived in the household?"

"The son returned during the summer after his first year of school in Boston. Mrs. Meyers and Jay, even when they are not fighting, their relationship is not close. There is a competition between them."

"Would you say that Mr. Meyers is, uh, affectionate with his wife when they _are_ together?"

"I do not think Mr. Meyers is a very affectionate man towards woman at all. I think he knows how to act in front of the right crowd."

"Would you say that Mr. Meyers prefers the company of other men?"

"He has these magazines. I've thrown some of them in the trash, they are filled with all sorts of devices. They are not intended for use with your wife."

"Can you show me?"

"Not here, I threw them away, but I would recognize them if I saw them."

He nodded and handed her his business card, "I may need to take you up on that," he spoke as he busily scribbled a contact number for her in his notepad, "_Xie xie_, Mrs. Zheng"

"_Bu ke qi. Zai jian_."

"_Zai jian_," Goren smiled and hobbled quickly back to Eames' black Ford Explorer. Once inside, he was excited to tell Eames about his mini-rendezvous with Mrs. Zheng. Upon reflection, save the 'stupid' altercation with Rheas, he felt like this investigation was just starting to hit its stride.

When he opened the passenger door, Goren could tell that something had gone awry. It had to have been the phone call. Eames stared stonily at the keypad on her cell. The cell phone was still in her right hand, and her shoulders appeared upright and tense. Immediately she looked away from him and gazed intently over the steering wheel. Eames' swallowed tightly before taking in a deep breath. It's as if she were trying to will herself into a calmer, more rational state.

He waited silently and prepared for what he assumed to be the worst-case scenario. Deakins and Branch must have gotten the word about the altercation with Bill Rheas.

"We need to get back to 1PP," Eames stated in the best matter-of-fact tone that she could convey, "Deakins has been asked to transfer the Meyers case. Meanwhile, there's a body at Grand Central that he wants us to turn our attention to."

Goren felt his stomach churn and tighten. He couldn't say that he'd never been turned off a case before. Yes, he'd been pulled off cases in the past, but not with Eames - and certainly not because it had been directly a result of his actions. She was the senior partner, and she was definitely taking a hit for him.

It was the self-fulfilling prophecy Goren carried on his shoulders. It was only a matter of time. In the end, he _was_ going to be the one to fuck this up for her. It was just sooner than he had expected.

He'd slept with her and now it was all going downhill.

"Eames? Can you pull over?"

She looked at him quizzically, before pulling over to the curb.

"I need a little, I-I need some air."

He undid his seat belt, hopped out of the car and nearly doubled over in pain as he'd forgotten about the 'major contusion' on his left leg. He shut her door a little harder than he'd planned too, and quickly shuffled away, limping heavily to the nearest alley.

He needed to pace, (fuck the pain – it was all his due) and most importantly he needed to hit something and carry out what Eames usually referred to as a temper tantrum. He walked all the way to the back end of the alley, which was enclosed by a chain-link fence. Goren's gloved hands gripped the chain-link: pulling at it, shaking it back and forth violently. Nothing.

Nothing except: the cold chill all about him, an aching, throbbing left thigh, and the deep disappointment of letting his partner down. He sighed shakily, a near sob exiting his throat as he let go of the chain-link, pushing it haphazardly away.

He limped slowly back to her waiting car. The pain in his leg was excruciating, but he welcomed it derisively.

Eames narrowed her eyes at him, studying him carefully, worry lines creeping onto her forehead, "lets pick up an icepack on the way. I've got ibuprofen in my purse. Please take two."

He certainly didn't like being told what to do, but he figured he'd been the one to screw this up, so he'd take her punishment for now. Cold coffee and ibuprofen - he should just save the time and call his gastro internist now.

"We need to talk," Eames paused, and he could tell she was choosing her words carefully, "we need to talk about last night."

His eyes closed, he wanted to run back inside his head, away from this awful waking life.

"Tonight," Eames continued, "we'll talk tonight, after we check in with the body at the station. That'll put us right in the center of midtown, and afterwards we can hash it over some of that Korean Barbeque you've gotten me into."


	8. Branch's reproach

_Chapter Eight_

* * *

There was a slight change in plans. Grand Central was high traffic, not to mention a very public setting. The body would need to be moved.

NYPD was being pressured by several fronts to meet deadlines so that the disruption of public transportation, (which in turn would affect commerce), would not inconvenience the city. Blah, blah, blah. Goren knew the routine.

But all politics aside, after a brief burst of pain when he edged out of their police issue, the ibuprofen was finally working and Goren was now able to walk with the perception of being injury-free.

The body of the victim lay sprawled out on large granite tiles between three sets of staircases and a deserted food court. Eames was working the scarce set of witnesses, while Goren poured over the body of a well-dressed young man - a young man whose head, contrasting sharply against the smooth white granite, was now drowning in a dark pool of blood.

Scrawling methodically in his leather note binder, Goren detailed everything he could initially observe on the body, including a very general sketch outlining the layout of the perceived murder.

Eames quietly walked up beside him, "We have Noah Preston, 25, New York State drivers license, library card – man after your own heart."

Goren looked up and managed a smile. Even under the strain of the previous set of circumstances, Eames had somehow retained her sense of humor.

Re-focusing his attention back to the body, Goren noted ink stains on the vic's left hand. An artist perhaps?

It was hard not to notice that the man was without winter attire, and it had been cold enough for snow this morning – even now with the temperature skating above 32 degrees Fahrenheit, there was a cold and penetrating rain outside the station – yet this man had no jacket?

In the end, Goren's intuition was correct, as Noah Preston hadn't spent much time out in the rain. Eames had suggested a taxi, but Preston's car was soon located off 37th. The vic's car had been ravaged. Blood on the seats and knife marks indicated a stabbing. All of this in conjunction with Eames receiving numerous interruptions on her cell phone. He knew what the calls were about. At this point it was pretty clear that they couldn't put off the meeting with Deakins for much longer.

As they closed up shop on the car, Goren watched the tow truck pull forward in order to impound Noah Preston's vehicle into police evidence. Eames hastily made her way back to the Explorer.

Intuition told him it wasn't just the cold air and miserable February weather, and sure enough, just as he was clicking in his safety belt, she broke the silence, "you want the good news or the bad news?"

He grimaced, "bad news."

"The meeting with Deakins is as soon as we can get to One Hogan Place."

"Deakins is, uh - " he couldn't finish his sentence, this was worse than he expected.

"They needed the transfer of information _yesterday_. Branch appears to be taking a much more supervisory role and as you can imagine, he is all over Jimmy. And can you guess who inherited our case? Lucky ol' Kaminski and Stevens. You can bet all of the above will be present," Eames frowned before adding, "Bobby? It's going to be okay. I'm your partner. You know I'm behind you one hundred percent. Deakins too. We're all here to back you up."

"Thanks," was all he could muster. And he meant it. It was time for him to step up to the plate.

Eames was prepared. All notes to Meyer's files were in order, and during the drive to One Hogan Place, Goren compiled his notations, including his recollection of the conversation with Mrs. Zheng. Everything Kaminski and Stevens needed would be available to them, including Eames – she'd take the brunt of nearly all of the transitional work necessary until the new team was up to speed.

Before entering One Hogan's place, Goren popped a few more ibuprofen, (on his partner's recommendation), and on the elevator ride up (gasp) she took the time to generally brief him on what her expectations of the meeting were to entail. He tried not to think about the last time he was on an elevator with her – an encounter which led to a much more pleasant stream of consciousness: who could believe that less than 24 hours ago, he was pouring over Eames body – literally. He thought of her darkened breasts, how they smelled and tasted (anything but the thought of walking into Branch's office with his tail between his legs) and immediately he felt intense sexual stirrings down south.

The elevator door opened, breaking his concentration (which was probably a good thing) and he followed her down a hallway that was decorated with a dozen oil paintings of dead, old, white men. He smelled leather, old dusty law books, and male sweat. It was not pleasant – not like the sweet smell of Eames.

And in the end, Goren was not worried of being shamed by the 'big boys,' rather he was concerned about his ability to control his emotions and take his due for Eames, and Deakins too to some extent. Not because he cared about what Branch thought of him, but rather, because he knew that his uber-rebellious impulses were hard to contain.

_I will not let Branch or his cronies get to me. _

When Goren and Eames walked into Arthur Branch's office door, Deakins, Kaminski and Stevens were huddled in the corner of the spacious high office of the Manhattan District Attorney. Deakins straightened to attention and tentatively approached Eames and himself.

Branch was busy having a discussion with one of his A.D.A's, one whom he quickly recognized as Jack McCoy. There was a younger attorney present, cowering in McCoy's tall wake, a petite blond girl, one who was clearly being undercut by Branch – only in the essence that Branch didn't seem to acknowledge her presence– and clearly Branch was discussing something that was relevant to both attorneys.

The word _prick_ came to Goren's mind.

And it was subtle, but Goren immediately picked up on Branch's facial expression. It wasn't meant for Goren to see, the twitch of a frown in disgust, while nodding in his general direction. Words were quietly exchanged between McCoy and Branch before a laugh was shared at his expense. McCoy, grabbed a few law journals from Branch's desk, nodded to his assistant, and walked straight past Goren with an indifferent gaze.

'I will not let Branch or his cronies get to me,' he silently reminded himself.

"Detective Robert Goren," Branch curled his lip, "and Detective Alex Eames?"

Goren felt his face twitch at the way Branch said his name; the drawn-out sneer was palpable.

"I assume you've been notified by your superiors in regards to the Meyer's case?"

"We have." Eames promptly answered.

Deakins took another step closer, "They're on board, and are willing to assist Kaminski and Stevens every step of the way."

"I expected nothing less," Branch barked condescendingly, "but I cannot emphasize enough, that the department of Major Case has been damaged in my mind by unprofessional behavior, and most importantly invaluable time wasted. Time, I might add, that is of the essence when catching a most depraved murderer."

"Yes sir," Deakins spoke quietly, "but with all due respect - "

"Captain," Branch hissed, "Now is not the time to split hairs, I've a conference room provided at the end of the hallway for your benefit. Please see to it that I have something fruitful to tell Mrs. Meyers by the end of the day."

"Let's go to it." Deakins sighed quietly directing his crew to the assigned conference room.

"Detective Goren," Branch managed yet again to say his name with the utmost scorn, "I haven't dismissed you yet."

Eames hesitated long enough for Branch to direct her as well, "Your job is senior detective?"

"Yes, sir." Eames stared right back into Branch's half lowered eyes.

"Act like it." Branch grumbled, "Your primary directive is to assist the new team. Not the individual who doesn't seem to heed your advice in the first place."

He watched Eames bite down on her lip, her wrists balled up into fists as she exited the room.

Now they were alone, _mono e mono_, and he was going to have to learn how to bite back all the fighting words that were brewing in his gut.

"My partner _always_ acts as a senior partner should," and there it was, laid out there before he could take it back. (_Don't fuck this up for her. Take your beating.)_

"Detective Robert Goren," Branch was fingering through a rather thick file, "have you ever considered that you might be in the wrong line of work?"

Branch slowly looked up from a rather large manila file.

"No, I'm quite good at what I do," Goren replied proudly, "my record both in Narcotics and Major Case should speak for itself."

Branch smiled, "Yes. Yes, you are unusually bright. But, I can't help but wonder about all these notations in regards to your ability to work with others. Not a team player? I mean, it looks like just about everyone you've worked with has petitioned to work with a new partner. So what," he paused, "what exactly is wrong with you detective?"

"Detective Eames and I have no problems working together,' he countered.

Branch smiled again in a most disconcerting way. And Goren focused all of his energies on getting a read on Branch. _Branch was just fucking with him, right? Branch wanted Goren to lose his temper, all in order to prove Branch correct. But today, that wasn't going to work._

"Well," Branch said as he closed the file, "you won't be working on anymore personal cases for me, that's for sure."

Branch motioned him closer for good measure, "tell me now, just why is it that you lost your ability to reason in the presence of your partner?"

He was trapped, he couldn't tell Branch about 'the pregnancy' because Eames hadn't yet told Deakins. And without this piece of information, of course Goren didn't have a good reason for attacking Rheas. In fact, when it came down to it, neither he nor Eames could yet be sure if this was an over protectiveness due to his knowledge of her condition, or more likely a combination of that knowledge with the fact that he was sleeping with her. Or more importantly, the fact that he was in love with her.

"Now, now, now detective," Branch chuckled, "cat got your tongue? Such a bright man, and not even the hint of a justifiable answer?"

"No answer that would be justifiable to you," he responded tiredly.

"Are you fucking her detective?"

"Are you done fucking with me?' Goren replied in his best 'matter-of-fact' tone.

"Get out of my office," Branch lowered his eyes, "now."

He did it. He made it out of there without putting his fist into Arthur Branch's thick skull.


	9. Frozen peas and ibuprofen

_Chapter Nine_

When all was said and done, (his meeting with Branch now an irritating memory), he still didn't text her. Mostly, because he didn't 'text.' He blamed it on his fingers being too big, and Eames would laugh every time he came up with an excuse to steer clear of any technological advance. Anyway, he knew that if she were too busy to take his call, it would go to straight to voice messaging.

He heard the all too familiar recording, "Detective Alex Eames, Major Case Division, NYPD, please leave your name, contact information and a brief message after the tone . . . (beep)."

"Eames, Branch cut me loose a few minutes after you left the room. I think, uh. . . I think I managed to keep my job, and you and the captain should be in the clear too. I'm at _Wonjo's_, keeping a seat warm for you. We, uh, we can chat over a few rice beers while the pan heats up for some serious barbequing, oh, yeah, uh, scratch that on your rice beer," he said a bit too glumly, "call me if something comes up, uh, okay, bye."

While waiting for any communiqué from Eames, he loosely fingered through his notes on Noah Preston, reworking connections, and putting together a list of avenues to explore with Eames starting first thing tomorrow.

Even with rice beer in hand, it was hard to concentrate. He felt so disjointed, as so much had come to pass in the past 24 hours: Eames was pregnant, he'd slept with Eames, he was ripped off one of the highest profile cases of his career - only to be thrown onto another less prolific case, he'd nearly died in a goddamned elevator, he put Eames' career in jeopardy, was properly chewed out by the Manhattan D.A., and he'd been in an altercation only to be rewarded with a deep tissue contusion the size of his fist on his mid-left thigh.

He took another sip of his golden _Hite_ lager, which pleasurably took him back to a more simple time in his life; his six month stint in South Korea.

Suddenly, he felt the odd sensation of his cell phone vibrating in his pocket.

"Goren."

"I'm parking," Eames rattled off, "I'm hungry as a horse, so you'd better put in the order now – get that sweet beef dish I love, the noodle dish too."

"Uh, so the _bulkoki _and the _bibim bop,_ and I think you like the uh, _pa jeun_ too – that's the uh, pancake-like dish," he confirmed.

"Yes, yes and yes," Eames urged before he heard, "hey buddy, you better move it or lose it, that's right, it's mine – don't make me use my flashers… that's right, NYPD buddy!"

He chuckled as the line went dead, nobody better mess with his hungry, preggo partner.

Moments later, he was watching her scarf down Korean dumplings and pancakes.

"God," Eames sighed, "I needed this."

"You _are_ eating for two now," he smiled.

"Something like that, but let me tell you," she looked up at him dead serious between bites, "I'm so exhausted. So, I'm informing you ahead of time - you may need to roll me into the car and give me a lift home for a change. I'm nearly catatonic."

"Sure, Eames," he committed, deftly using his chopsticks to pick up a few cooked marinated beef strips from the sizzling hot pan most proficiently, before carefully placing them on her plate.

Eames managed to wedge another Korean pancake square into her mouth, "Tell me about Branch. Everything," she pointed her chopsticks at him using her best 'bad cop,' "and I'll know if you lie."

"After you left," he lowered his eyes unconsciously, "I basically behaved. Then I, uh, defended your work, Branch needled me a bit, uh, before informing me that I could leave."

"You looked down," Eames prodded gently, "and you severely generalized your answer."

"I, uh," he was choosing his words carefully, "I saw how upset you were after Deakins told you we were off the Meyer's case, and I don't think reliving each and every one of Branch's childish taunts is going to make the day any easier for us."

He looked into her eyes briefly, trying desperately to make a connection, "and you Eames," he continued softly, "is everything okay?"

He could see she was trying to process his very loaded question, "Kaminski and Stevens are squared away," she took a sip of water her eyes never wavering, "and I'm telling Deakins tomorrow. About this," she pointed to her midsection.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to comprehend what she was planning to accomplish. It was quite simple really, she was going to diffuse the situation surrounding the altercation by going public with the fact that he knew about her pregnancy when he attacked Rheas, which in essence was true. Boy, he'd love to be a fly on the wall when Branch heard about the justification. However, knowing what a self-absorbed politico Branch was, he doubted it would really mean two cents to the man.

Eames, he mused, she knew how to play politics. More importantly, through thick and thin, she always knew how to make him feel better. He was just starting to relax when Eames' voice sliced through his thoughts.

"But before we go any further," she paused, "I need your help understanding a few things …"

"My help?"

"_I_ need to understand why you attacked Rheas."

He unconsciously licked his upper lip; his right leg bouncing up and down as he tried to put some real conscious thought into the answer.

Yet again, Eames broke his concentration, shaking her head, "no, you're thinking too much about this."

He frowned, pursing his lips together tightly while fiercely shaking his head; his left finger waggled back and forth, "no, no, no Eames – the problem _is_ I haven't had enough time to think about this."

He sighed while his right hand immediately ran up and down the right side of his head; his fingers scratching the hair behind his right ear, "I can't tell you if I attacked Rheas for one reason or another. Namely those reasons being: the initial revelation that you are uh, pregnant, and uh secondly, the fact that we were intimate, because, uh... well, most scientists will tell you that you should never add more than one new variable to the mix, or you'll have a damned time isolating the problem."

"Bobby," Eames brushed a few errant hair strands from her face and sighed heavily, "I'm not interrogating you. I just . . . what you said makes perfect sense," she reiterated, "but I'm only probing deeper into this because I _need_ to know if being intimate with you is going to adversely affect our partnership."

He watched her slowly tilt her head to the right, trying desperately to hold on to his retreating eyes. Her voice was quiet - just above a whisper, "I've never done this before Bobby, and I guess I'm scared too. I mean, we all know this is a conflict of interest, one that the department frowns upon, but clearly, we wouldn't be the first detectives to break into this uncharted territory."

"Bobby?" Eames tried again to lock on to his eyes, but in return, he could only manage meeting her gaze for maybe a few seconds before turning his head away, his apprehensiveness growing.

"I can't tell you how _much_ I value our partnership," she continued gently, "and I think I know what it means to you too."

This was almost too much for him to bear in a public setting, he took a swig of his rice beer, and slowly waited for the warm sedative to wash away his anxiety.

"When I found out we were taken off the Meyer's case," she started tentatively, "of course I reasoned that it could be traced back to the fact that we were intimate and – I mean, I asked you to be with me last night, and," he watched her bite on her upper lip nervously as she continued, "I've never felt so critical of my choices, since uh," her voice broke suddenly, "Bobby, we have such an amazing thing. Our partnership really, _really_ works, and honestly I never thought I'd find my stride again," his ears strained as her voice quieted to the point that it was nearly inaudible, "after Joe, you know, everything went south. I lost _everything_. I had to slowly rebuild myself, and it was so very – painful."

"Eames," it was the first time that he said her name and it felt strangely wrong.

"Alex," he quietly corrected himself, "I'm going to take you home now. You, uh, you look exhausted, and we can talk about this more, uh, tomorrow?"

She didn't put up a fight, she must be exhausted he reasoned as he caught their waiter's attention. He picked up the tab, grabbed the doggie bags and helped her wrap up in all her winter layers before escorting her to the passenger side of her Explorer.

"You called me Alex," she stated simply, the street lights reflecting off her soft brown eyes, "I don't think I've ever heard you call me Alex before."

He smiled, and tucked a handful of stray hairs back into her knit cap before walking around to the driver's side. It took a few minutes to readjust the seat and mirrors, but he managed without re-aggravating his left thigh, (which to his dismay, was starting to throb painfully again).

He helped her inside her apartment; a tiny little haven, where everything smelled of Eames.

"Stay?" She inquired.

He nodded and slowly began to pull off his winter attire while she took care of her own evening rituals. She emerged from her bathroom in a white undershirt, grey panties, a pair of oversized woolen socks and with a hint of toothpaste drying at the corners of her mouth. He immediately turned away, shy for some strange reason.

"Uh Eames?"

"Yeah?"

"You gotta icepack?"

"Frozen peas. Unopened, they're all yours."

When he returned to her bedroom, it took him a moment to register a muffled snore emanating from her side of the bed. Eames was conked out, her head barely visible between a swath of pillows.

He stripped down to his undershirt and boxers and sat down next to her, tentatively applying the bag of peas (wrapped in a dishcloth) to his impressive bruise. It had been a long time since he'd had his ass handed to him, but he'd do it again in a heartbeat if it meant he'd somehow managed to preserve both their intimate and professional relationship.

Hoping the last round of ibuprofen would hold, he delved into the Van Gogh biography he'd picked up at the library from the night before, slowly dissecting and digesting the information in the same methodical manner he approached most tasks. With his back against her headboard, he'd break away from a page now and again to watch her sleep - only to be rewarded with intimate details he'd never been privy to before: like observing the tiny twitches that danced about her mouth and eyes, a sure sign that she'd entered the REM cycle. Without warning, she rolled on to her right side and then backpedal slowly into him, stopping only when she had her back square against his right leg, the back of her head nestled into his side.

The 'ice pack' would be a good preventative tonight, but it was only a temporary solution. Since their first intimate experience, his desire for her was growing with a frightening intensity. He so wanted to be with her again. He would be better this time; he'd be prepared, not half-asleep or in a deep state of shock. He felt confident that he was good in bed, and there were so many things he wanted to show her, so many things he wanted to tell her, so many things he wanted to share with her. The future looked bright...

... and for the first time in a long time, his waking life and dreaming life were in balance.

TBC

A.N. Don't fret - Eames wants that bruise to heal too.


	10. How to get your partner's attention

_Chapter Ten_

The soft morning light illuminated his closed eyelids. He couldn't remember falling asleep. He could barely recall most of his dreams; just patches of warmth radiating his skin as he walked through golden fields of generic agriculture, cyprus trees and an achingly beautiful deep blue sky. He was slightly disorientated as his eyelids finally blinked open, only to register a completely foreign surrounding. He'd never woken up in this room before… a room that was equally warm as a sunny, summer morning in France, a room that was welcoming and fragrantly pleasing to his most sensitive olfactory organ.

He felt heavy, and unwilling to move, unwilling to leave the warm, pleasant cocoon of Eames' bed. He could hear her soft, quiet morning movements emanating from the bathroom: the shower fan, a blow dryer, perhaps humming?

When he heard the hair dryer click off, he decided it would be best to orient himself - lest Eames be the one to catch him in such a messy, morning state.

While he slumbered, it was evident that she must have thrown a few blankets over him. He was still in his boxers and tee, never once having entered under her covers, with the Van Gogh bio bridging his chest. He also noted that she must have removed the frozen peas and dishcloth at some point – and instantly he felt pleasantly moved by how she'd taken care of him.

He ran his hands through his hair, unconsciously checked his stubble growth by moving his right hand over his lips and chin, and then tentatively slid off her bed putting weight on both legs – waiting for the pain of yesterday's altercation to rear its ugly head. His thigh was still sore, but not nearly as unmanageable as he'd expected.

Without warning, her bathroom door swung open. Eames was mostly ready for work, her hair carefully in place, a dark blue tank top accompanied by black dress pants and her work badge hanging loosely from her right hip.

"Good morning sunshine," she started to smile warmly at him, before her eyes did a double take and she gasped unexpectedly, her left hand covering her mouth in surprise.

He felt instant mortification as he followed the gaze of her eyes downward. It didn't dawn on him for two seconds that she was taking in the nasty multi-colored welt on his left thigh as opposed to uh… a little higher and to the right.

Okay, first heart attack averted, but he turned quickly away from her nonetheless, inspecting his leg and other areas privately, while inwardly cursing himself for not getting himself together sooner so she wouldn't have to see him in such a personal state. They were new at this, and it was still hard to see her as a person outside of professional work, or more importantly, hard for him to let her see him in such an intimate way.

He was pretty sure, even though they'd slept together once, that he wasn't ready to be walking around with a very obvious, common male morning condition in plain sight. Boxers didn't hide everything, and well, he was raised Catholic, need he say more?

"Sorry Bobby," Eames said, "I didn't mean to scare you, but your bruise is much worse than I expected."

"Yeah," he replied, still shifting a bit uncomfortably, "I guess I didn't realize that it was so, uh, intense either."

He felt her come up beside him, and he fought the urge to turn away from her yet again, but she wasn't coming at him in an overly pushy way, she wasn't even directly looking at him, she just came in close and said, "Man, that must've hurt like a son-of-a-bitch."

He could only nod.

"Do you want to use the shower?" she inquired.

"Oh, um, no, thanks."

She was now past him, moving towards her doorway giving him a bit of privacy, "Do you need a lift back to your place?"

"No, uh, I've got extra work clothes in my locker, I"ll shower there too."

She nodded and pulled on her matching black blazer, "Today's the day I tell Deakins."

"Do you know what you are going to say?"

"Yeah, I've thought about how I'd approach it," she smiled again, "thanks. Uh, so how's your book?"

"Oh, it's uh, very good, thank you."

"Isn't that the crazy genius artist who cut off his ear for a woman?"

"Oh, uh, actually, Van Gogh did it for his partner, Gaugin. You see, Van Gogh was intensely worried his partner was going to leave him, uh, so much so, that he did the act in frustration – uh, there was lots of tension between the two painters, but they really did complete some amazing work together. Primarily it was a desperate attempt to get his partner's attention, and in some ways, it worked as he became pretty ill after the incident and, uh, it didn't escape Gaugin's attention. Uh, many people believe Van Gogh sliced off his ear for a woman, but that is only because after he cut off his ear he wrapped it in paper and gave it to a prostitue named Rachel for uh, 'safe-keeping.'"

Eames frowned, "it sounds like Van Gogh may have needed a little medication."

"Medication that would most likely not be available in the mid-seventeen hundreds," he softly reminded.

"Eames?"

She looked at him warmly with full attention.

"Good luck this morning," and he flashed his most charming smile – well, the smile that he knew he got reactions with. He meant what he said in the most self-less way. He loved her, worried about her, and really gave a damn that the meeting went smoothly.

"Thanks," she moved towards him quickly, reaching up and guiding his head down from the right side of his neck, before firmly planting a kiss on his cheek, "let's get going mister, we can grab some pastries on the way."

"Wait, wait," he caught her quickly just above her hips and pulled her in close, releasing her only when he had her back in his personal space, "before we, uh, go into professional mode."

"Yes," she replied, tipping her head back to meet his eyes.

"Can we reserve more time tonight to talk about our, uh, or the possibility of continuing a more personal relationship, uh, a relationship outside of work?" he continued a bit sheepishly.

His heart was racing, as he watched her gazing right back up at him. The proximity of her eyes, nose and beautiful face – it made him feel warm all over. He needed to have at least one more shot with her. Suddenly, he felt a deep biological yearning to engulf her right here and now, to encompass her and remember what it felt like for her to take him in, to be surrounded by her inner warmth, to crawl deeper and deeper inside, never to come back out until he'd filled her with each and every one of his inner sensitivities, insecurities, emotions and desires.

"Come here," she tugged at the sleeve of his shirt, "we'll leave the office on time tonight, and I'll only remind you once."

"Yes, ma'am," he smiled playfully, dimples starting to deepen on each side of his cheeks. He felt genuinely hopeful about his evening, downright lustful too. He thought he saw desire reflected in her eyes, and maybe it only came down to her pregnant hormones, but even so, he felt pretty confident that the hormones were only amplifying feelings that were already present.

"Hurry up and put on some pants," she chided him lightly, "I need my tea and danish."

* * *

_One Police Plaza_

Post shower, shave and a fresh change of clothes at 1PP, he busied himself, or rather he made himself look busy. She was less than 20 feet away from him, albeit behind Deakins' closed doors. She'd been in there for nearly twenty minutes. How long does it take to say, "I'm pregnant?" he wondered.

He paced up and down, Noah Preston's files loosely between his fingers. Suddenly, the door to Deakin's office opened and he raced towards her from the side.

He watched her roll her eyes with slight uncertainty, "Well . . . I told him."

He leaned in closer, to give the conversation an air of privacy, even though he knew damn well that this info would travel like a wildfire in August, "And, uh, what did he say?"

"He gave me a big hug, he said it was a great thing I was doing for my sister," she paused slightly, her left eyebrow slightly raised, "he said when the time comes, he'll uh, hook you up with a tentative partner…"

"Oh, no, I didn't even think of that," he winced, knowing full well, that he hadn't put the proper amount of thought into it. Shit. Eames told him she'd need time here and there, but – fuck – what was Deakins thinking? A tentative partner? Awwww, fuck.

She stood there a thoughtful look on her face. Wait, he wondered hopefully, just because Deakins suggested it, doesn't mean that she's going to need or want this tentative partner solution either.

"And what did you say?"

"I pity the fool."

His heart sank at her response. It was meant to lighten the situation, yet he couldn't help feeling like an sullen, angry child - one who was unfairly having something pulled over his eyes.

"How about our gal?" Deakins smiled, "surrogate mom?"

And before he could think another thought on the matter, Deakins was probing him about the Preston case. Fair enough, he was at work. With all of the new changes in the air, throwing his heart and mind into work seemed like the most calm place for his brain to be.

TBC

A.N. Thanks again for all the comments and reviews - many of which are quite lively and make me laugh.


	11. Sideburns

_Chapter Eleven_

He held a love for all forms of art, architecture too: the aesthetics, sheer beauty and size of the projects. Since he was a youth he'd developed a keen appreciation of architecture simply through osmosis, namely living in and around the Five Boroughs.

Through Deakins' suggestion of starting the investigation at an architecture professional's organization, he and Eames were given the opportunity to sniff through Alder Architecture, which in turn led them to the very apartment of Noah Preston.

By the end of their two-fold journey, many thoughts filtered through his head as he placed his mind into that of the young murdered architect: stereotypical obsessive compulsive proclivities ('neat and tidy: everything in its place and a place for everything'), perfectionism, solitude, long working hours, surprisingly low pay, mechanical pencils and a plentitude of well dressed homosexual men.

Today had been filled with many contradictions, complexities and emotional extremes. Considering the possibilities he had entertained with his senior partner that very morning, he was inwardly impressed that he was able to focus on the Preston case with such clarity. For in addition to his more lascivious contemplations, he was simultaneously suppressing the emotional turmoil he felt in regards to being set up with a temporary partner, (and what a very sad day it would be indeed - when Eames could no longer meet the physical demands of the job).

He cursed inwardly, wishing for once in his life that he would be free of such antithetical emotional turmoil; especially conflicting emotions that dealt specifically with Eames. But Eames was, after all, his greatest puzzle. And with all puzzles, one must consider what it would be like to put the final puzzle piece in place, namely to solve the puzzle. Would he experience serenity or discontent? More importantly, with a lifetime full of angst, disorder and personal disappointment, was it even a remote possibility that he could find peace and true happiness?

Tonight he felt confident he would be given an opportunity to work on the puzzle, to study it carefully, and to make some important observations before slowly putting the pieces together. He must remember to work methodically, slowly – for it was important not to rush a project with so much potential.

But before he could obsess, he forced himself to refocus on the issue of Noah Preston and to step away from the puzzle known as Eames. With a touch of resignation, he picked up his favorite 0.9 mm Pentel mechanical pencil and began to explore ideas in regards to what they'd discovered today – a photo collage with several central images removed and a letter from Preston's professor with a cryptic money request.

"Hey," a soft voice interrupted his train of thought.

He knew who it was before he looked up from his notebook. Eames' blazer was draped over her empty chair, and out of his side peripheral view she approached his desk, strong wiry arms full with a stack of work files.

"I told you this morning that I'm only gonna tell you once," she nodded towards the clock on the far wall.

"Geez, where did the day go?" he mumbled dumfounded, "uh, Eames, you go ahead without me, I'll uh, get a shower here and meet you at Carmine's?"

"I never turn down good Italian," she winked, "are you paying?"

"Of course," he offered, straightening his paper work in a manila folder before placing it neatly in his overnight bag, "I can be there in forty-five minutes. Will that work?"

She nodded while putting her blazer back on, "if your paying, I'm there."

He broke into a cheerful grin; never tiring of her quick wit.

Watching her drape on the last of her winter attire and head down the hallway towards the elevators, he quickly gathered his belongings. He had much to accomplish in a mere forty-five minutes. Carmine's was close, but there was much at stake.

Shower and shave, a nick to the right of his chin, and was one of his sideburns now a bit shorter than the other? Fuck it, he thought as he used a piece of toilet paper to staunch the deep crimson flow, there's not enough time.

The options he had to wear in his locker were down to one, and while it was not his favorite choice, it was a far superior choice when compared to wearing anything that he may have sweat in during the day, (male sweat, ugh, it was amazing that many women opted to sleep with men).

Finally, he debated whether he should put on a tie over his light blue dress shirt, or if undoing the top button and going tie-less would look too Brooklyn for her Irish-American upbringing. Then again, Carmine's was not the place to go if he didn't want to highlight his own ethnic background.

He brushed and flossed, pulled the tissue coagulant from his chin, splashed on a touch of cologne, readjusted his hair with a comb before doing a final spot check in the mirror. "Goddamned sideburns," he muttered while pulling on his sports coat. After all was said and done, he went with the tie.

* * *

Seated in a quiet low-lit enclave, he was glad he had arrived before her as it gave him time to pause and reflect on the evening to come. It also gave him the time to place a single red rose on her place setting. He wished he had the courage to write a romantic note for her, but every time he set pen to paper he lost the words. Words. What possibly could he write to express the feelings he had for her? (Exactly, there was nothing he could put on paper that a rose couldn't say much better).

He opened up the familiar menu, foot and leg shaking in nervous anticipation and all that comes with trying something new. He tugged on the short hairs of his right sideburn, willing them downward to be level with the opposite side. (She won't notice he promised himself).

"Hi," a mild voice contrasted sharply against the random background noise only a restaurant could provide.

"Oh," was all he could reply. Quickly he stood up and moved over to her, pulling out her chair and motioning for her to sit. (God, she looked lovely as usual).

Out of his periphery, he watched her expression soften when she first noticed the rose, her mouth slightly agape, "thank you," she whispered a bit stunned, picking up the rose by its long stem and rolling it between her tiny strong fingers, "it's, um, it's very beautiful."

He smiled inwardly, taking her jacket before helping her push her chair in. He was turned away from her when he commented, "just like you." The words were impromptu, and they rolled out unsuspectingly, as if he was no longer in control of his own body, actions or what came out of his mouth. He was just going with the flow. It seemed right.

Returning to his seat, he saw that her face was hidden conveniently behind bangs, (to conceal a blush?) he wondered.

"Um, I thought this might be," he paused, "well I hoped this might be a good setting to, uh, talk about our relationship outside of work."

"You bet," she looked up, and he could tell she was trying to regain her footing, "you know about my weakness for Italian cuisine."

"But what about Irish cuisine?" he laughed.

"You have no idea how much I dislike corned beef and cabbage," she stated simply, "I'm sure you're full aware that the Irish are not world renowned for their cuisine."

He smiled before gesturing to the menu, "would you care for an appetizer?"

"Sure, you pick," she smiled and met his gaze, "it's so nice to be able to do this, you know, pressure free," she paused and added, "work free too."

He couldn't handle her deep brown eyes penetrating his, so he leaned down and busied himself with pulling a few books out of his overnight bag, "I, uh, found these at a bookstore when I stole away for lunch this afternoon."

She was still holding tightly on to her rose as she peered over the table settings to steal a better look.

He held up the first one, a pregnancy guide book, "uh, the woman who runs the shop has two grown daughters, and she confirmed that this is the best book on the subject."

He held out the next entitled 'The Expectant Father,' "this one is of course, for me," he cleared his throat slightly before handing her the pregnancy guide, "and I have a Mayo Clinic book that I've been referencing regarding some considerations we could make, uh to make sure you are most comfortable you know, at work, or uh, if our relationship continues to grow outside of work."

It was unusual for Eames to remain this quiet as she usually had the last word on everything. Ohhh, and he adored her one-liners, he was use to them, but this? He'd never seen this side of her before.

Before it became too uncomfortable, she broke the silence, "you are too much, Robert Goren."

And immediately he knew she meant it in a good way, and he was quite pleased that he had made the right impression on their official first date.

They enjoyed a pleasant meal, angel hair pasta for Eames, eggplant parmigiana for him. When all was said and done, the tab paid, and they'd finished wrapping up tightly to bear the cold February weather, he pulled her close to him as they walked down the sidewalk arm in arm. Heavy black pea-coats, full bellies, and arms intertwined they bounced a bit awkwardly up the street – such that he couldn't help but feel like an oversized penguin waddling up against a cold arctic north wind. He looked down to steal a peek; her cheeks were a deep red set against the biting wind-chill. (Why was it again that she wanted to spend more time with him outside of work?)

Once they reached her SUV, she stopped walking and turned into him.

"Are you going to come to my place?" she asked, her breath condensing in the cool air.

He detected the soft yearning in her voice, enough to cause his heart to ache – and yet it was also something about the way she looked at him as she asked, eyes hopeful, while her voice remained tentative and so different from the uber-confident Eames he knew from work.

"I was hoping…" he spoke looking down at his feet. The anticipation of possibilities dancing through his head.

* * *

At her place, they quickly decided to thaw in her bedroom. Few words were said as they peeled off layer after layer of warm clothes. Soon they were sitting on her bed sans winter attire just looking at each other.

They were both uniquely unsure how to start, so she grabbed his two big hands in her own and pulled them in to her. Awkwardness seemed to be an inescapable theme, (hadn't they done this once before? Yes, he reasoned, but it wasn't planned last time.)

This time it was definitely a slow start, not the whirlwind desire that propelled them into each other's arms like the first time. She kept trying to meet his eyes, and it touched him that he could see her struggling for the first time. She busied herself, her tiny strong fingers worked at his burgundy striped tie, it was difficult at first, but then she found her stride and suddenly the tie fell loosely into her hands.

He laughed nervously, stopping only when her right hand reaching up to run across the side of his head, slowly fingering and playing with the grey tips of his hair. He stilled at her touch, only slightly worried that she'd noticed his non-symmetrical sideburns.

"Hey," she smiled, "how'd you get so sweet?"

He touched the side of her cheek running his finger over the bridge of her nose and finally over the pointed tip (his favorite feature).

"When I first was partnered with you, I didn't know you were such a big softy," she continued working at the top button of his blue dress shirt.

He did not know how to respond, or talk anymore for that matter, he needed the full use of his brain to focus on this moment and he didn't want to miss anything.

He sighed into her hand as she brushed it over his temple and down to his chin, grazing his lips.

"Hey you," she spoke softly, "I'm in this for the long haul," she paused, "but what do you want?"

He just shook his head and brought it down into that soft area between her collarbone and jawline, he inhaled deeply (oh jesus christ), "Alex."

Now it was her turn to be still, though he could feel her gently playing with the short curls on the back of his head (it felt wonderful).

"Alex," he started again, "I want you."

When he felt her hands freeze and her breath hitch, he pulled her down with him onto the bed, mindful not to put too much weight on her, he used his left leg to corral her body towards the center of the bed.

"I want you," he repeated, pressing his lips into the sweet valley of her fragrant neck, his hands rubbing rhythmically up and down from her shoulders to her elbows, and from there to the point where her hips rose into two sharp points, a handy region where he could work his hands under her tank top.

His full five senses being stimulated all at once was intoxicating and he was slowly losing his ability to record each and every sensational moment. It was an exquisite feeling; she was writhing underneath him, simultaneously touching him all over too.

He had to push away from her for a second to catch his breath, she was panting too, as they lay in half naked states, tasting and touching each other voraciously as if both were starved for affection.

"Please Alex," he managed between breaths, "I need you," and with that they continued intense mini-attacks upon each other, each one upping the ante so to speak.

Finally, he had to act or he'd have an accident if it kept up at this pace, "just a sec," he wheezed, "I read that you might be more comfortable uh, if we try it like this."

He flipped her onto her right side, while he managed to slide out of his now damp boxer shorts, any more of this heavy petting was going to cause him to do more than just pre-ejaculate.

Wrapping around her, he imagined for a moment that he probably resembled a horny octopus clinging to her for dear life from behind, "ready?" he whispered in her ear.

"Uh-huh," she huffed, pushing her back end square into his hips. So there they lay, both on their right sides, his right hand busily kneading her right breast, his left hand gripping the point of her left hip, his left leg hovering over her thigh as he gave into his biological desire to gain deeper and deeper access.

Pregnancy had continued to increase her chest size, her nipples circumference were wider, and darker still, a slight swell in her belly was visible at this angle. He noticed her left hand gripping a pillow tightly as if it were a life preserver, her chest heaving, her breath hitching, her heart beat quickening, her skin flush.

He was moaning softly, almost crying, because it felt so unbelievable, the book said she'd be tighter with each coming week and damned if half of her blood flow wasn't pooled right where it needed to be, putting an intoxicating amount of pressure around him.

"Right there," he heard her pant. So he focused his mind on trying to meet her needs, but he couldn't hold on, it wasn't physically possible at this point. He'd reached the moment where all voluntary control was over. His mouth couldn't get enough oxygen, his heart was pounding at an extremely high pace, "oh, I'm going to, going to . . . " he gasped tongue searching wildly around the inside of his lips, dipping in and out as he lost all control of his body – which was now busy propelling the contents of his seminal vesicles, and emptying them as biology intended, spasming deep inside her vaginal canal.

Even while his body was wracked with tiny contractions emanating form his lower core, he pushed through it all, forcing himself to continue the same rhythm she demanded so that she could experience pleasure too.

"Almost," she gasped, "almost there," and one, two, three more deep pushes was all it took, for then he saw her squeeze the pillow tightly, her hips flexed reflexively and then her body shuddered in his arms. He held her tighter, taking in all her bodies' little involuntary twitches, while his mind recorded this most unbelievable experience. So slow, so slow, everything was so beautifully slow right now. They lay wrapped up together tightly, alternatively shuddering and convulsing.

As their breaths and heartbeats slowly leveled out, they lay together in a sublime silence, only the muted sounds of the city broke into their consciousness now and again.

Suddenly his body jerked with a final physical impulse, the blood was pooling back away from his lower core and with that he slowly ebbed out of her, and finally they were two separate beings again. She curled back around to him and nestled her head into his chest. She could nest there forever as far as he was concerned. He laid a kiss gently on her forehead and brushed the bangs from her eyes, "Alex," he whispered and left it at that.

He didn't want to say that it was the best sexual experience he'd ever had, but truly it was the most emotionally satisfying. As he got older, he knew how important the emotional aspect of a sexual relationship meant. This was golden, and now that he'd shared this moment with her he knew that he'd been transformed irreversibly. He was now hers. She'd just seen to that, like she'd branded him on the inside. What was he to do? He'd never allowed anyone to brand him before.

Had he just started putting the pieces together to the puzzle known as Eames, or had she just completed the puzzle known as Goren?

Before he could finish the thought, he heard her breathing regulate at a rather mechanical pace, he leaned over, straining his neck only to find her asleep in his arms. "Alex?"

When she didn't answer, his query was confirmed.

Now he could allow himself to relax and drift away alongside her. His sweet Eames cradled in his arms.

TBC


	12. Working with a genius

_Chapter Twelve_

His dreams were saturated by her scent,

her soft brown eyes,

the gentle twitches she made between his arms as she slept.

He slipped in and out of wakefulness for several reasons, but mostly because he was afraid. Afraid that this was all a dream – and even if it wasn't, it could all end and he'd be left with only a fleeting memory.

So when she shifted, he would wake, teetering between being mindful of making sure she had her own space (this is _her _bed, remember?) to feeling like he needed to pull her in tight (_mine!_ You are mine Eames.)

He watched the minutes pass by on her illuminated clock radio. Periodically (and irrationally he might add) he would experience a strong urge to wake her, to see if she was thinking about him. Then she'd turn and her breast would brush against him. This simple, innocuous act would start off a chain reaction that left him in a powerfully alert state of arousal. Would she want to have sex again he wondered?

Suddenly she turned again, this time back into his chest. The top of her head gently prodded him as she snuggled in tighter. He couldn't take his eyes off of her. Invariably he was most drawn to her face, so much so that he could not peel his eyes away. Her long eyelashes and her most adorable nose were but inches from him. Her warm breath came in short bursts and tickled his ribcage.

It was too much for him to process. He turned away from her gently as not to disturb her, lest his body give away his intentions. In any case, there was just enough moonlight creeping through the window for him to crack open a book. It was all he could do to distract himself.

The Mayo clinic book provided him with the most detail regarding the physical and emotional limitations Eames' body would be going through during her nine-month trek. 'The Expectant Father' book was clearly an easier read, and seemed to understand what guys were most worried about while their woman was pregnant. It was all very fascinating, and yet with each page of enlightenment, he started to come to the sour realization that Eames should probably step away from the job sooner than even she probably had anticipated.

As much as he wanted Eames to be present at all times, (and knowing what he knew now), he hated to admit to himself that he too stood behind the recommendations of the books when it came down to advice regarding physical and emotional limitations. Already, he felt that she should not be doing many of the things detectives were expected to physically endure in their regular daily schedule: the excessive walking, the many stairs and physical obstacles that they encountered on a daily basis would become increasingly difficult.

Further, when he wrapped his head around the concept of environmental hazards, it was like tiptoeing through landmines of insanity. On his left hand, he could think of the many toxic environments they had visited in the past, all the second hand smoke, and even the chemicals used at the morgue, they were all unhealthy for the baby she was carrying.

And what of the dangers inherent with Eames being around perps? Perps who all seemed to be on the edge of acting out in a countless array of non-predictable behavior – the concept scared the shit out of him. Maybe, just maybe, he should stop reading, but he knew full well that he couldn't and more importantly that he wouldn't – reading was his best coping mechanism.

Without warning, he about jumped out of his skin and nearly dropped the book on her head.

"Eames?"

"How long have you been reading?" she yawned, her eyelids still fluttering.

"How long have you been staring at me?"

He watched her smile widen in the moonlight, "did you know that you are pretty damned cute when you are focusing like that?"

He decided not to reply to that, "why are you awake?"

"Actually, I have to pee," she announced as she pulled away from him and slid off her bed. "You know," her expression was slightly serious, "there's not enough light in this room to read. Before you know it, you'll be blind as a bat."

He shifted slightly, surprised at how damp the sheets were where she was previously laying.

Minutes later, she came back into the bedroom, flipping on a small table lamp, "if you're going to read."

"I don't want to keep you awake," he replied.

She shook her head, "you won't."

"Eames, you, uh, sweat quite a bit," he mumbled quietly.

She snorted, "I have pregnancy hormones to thank for that."

He couldn't disguise a raised eyebrow as he scanned through the index of his book, though he was pretty sure he had already known the answer regarding that side effect too.

"Now what's wrong?" her eyebrows pinched together, and her nose was turned slightly upward.

"Nothing."

"Oh," she grumbled, " and don't think that I don't know all your sullen looks. Did you know that you always scratch the back of your head like that when you are put off your game?"

He watched her eyes subtly switch back and forth, from the book he was reading to his face, (damnit, she was going into 'Detective Eames mode' on his ass – not fair), and just as he was about to chide her in return . . .

"Now I know what this is all about," she pronounced, "I knew you were sulking after I mentioned a temporary partner."

He shook his head fervently, "No Eames," he lied, "I'm reading these books to ensure that you remain healthy with me while we're on the job, uh, I'm educating myself, like I…"

"Like you do about everything else," Eames observed before adding, "but would you say that there is no self-interest driving this impetus of yours?"

"I don't want a temporary partner," he murmured quietly, ultimately deciding that truth was the best route.

"Oh Bobby," she sighed, "I know," she paused as she reached out to touch his face, "If it makes you feel better, I'm hand picking your new partner – with Deakins help of course."

"It won't," he started, but then he decided to leave the rest of his thought unsaid.

"It won't be me," she tried to build on his words, "but I'm not going to leave you, I'll be working with you the entire time, they'll have to carry me out when my water breaks."

Suddenly he felt dizzy, followed by an intense emotion bubbling up from his gut, "no Eames," he whispered tightly, "You don't understand. I can't do it without you . . . I'll be found out."

It was all he could get out before his voice would crack and give it all away. Shit. He couldn't hide anything from her (remember? She's a fucking detective, she reads people just like you.)

She was on him now, in his personal space, smoothing back his hair, caressing his face, "do you know how many times I just sat around, unable to follow your train of thought?"

He couldn't respond, he would start breaking down, so he just sat upright on her bed, trying his best to hide any facial expressions, anything that would show her how unstable he felt right now, how uncomfortable, how frightened, how terrified he was of letting anybody into his fucked up little world. If only she knew, she'd leave him in a heartbeat. (Please stop stroking my head Eames).

"Do you know what it's like when I'd watch you derive something from the crime scene? Something that CSU would easily miss?" her voice was slowly climbing in intensity, "I, um, I keep telling the captain, I'm working with this genius."

(Please Eames).

"I'm working with a genius. Did you know that?" she was looking right into his eyes, inches away, his personal space crumbling, "Bobby, you are a genius."

(No).

"So I didn't know you were gifted when we first started working together," her eyes locked on to his again, "but I know now, and," she paused, "don't worry, I'll find someone you can work with. I'm your senior partner, I won't let you down."

He nodded and swallowed tightly again, wishing she'd step back for just a moment so that he could compose himself. Thankfully, she seemed to read him on queue, and he watched her slide back to her side of the bed, "Does it ever turn off?" she asked quietly.

"I don't know," was all he could manage.

"I won't give up on you," she declared.

"I know," he whispered, "you've let me into a very special place," he nodded at her modestly decorated bedroom, which still to this day, hauntingly remained very much unchanged since Joe lay beside her in the sanctity of marriage. Her fear of commitment to another man, her fear of abandonment, of the looming possibilities of the death of another life partner, of being able to have the strength to love another person was evident. The evidence was presented to him in the way her room remained stagnant over the years. No growth, Eames had allowed no growth or exploration to flourish in her personal space (and he wasn't referring to the occasional one night stand or short term relationship.)

"Robert Goren, you are not a fuck-up, and the only thing that _they_ are going to find out, is exactly what I found out," she swallowed emotionally, "they're going to find out what an asset you are to Major Case. _That_," she punctuated, "is what they really are going to discover once you are set up with a new partner."

"Eames," he spoke just above a whisper, "when did you decide that you were going to let me in?"

"I'm sorry?"

"When," he cleared his throat, "did you decide that your feelings for me were stronger than your fear of losing me, uh, that is: me dying in the line of duty, like, uh," he couldn't finish the sentence. He refused to say Joe's name, as it wasn't his goal to upset her.

"I've never stopped being afraid of losing you," she looked away quickly, "that holds true for today as much as it did back when we were first paired up."

"I'm afraid of it all the time," she added, "and it never goes away, and the pain," her voice cracked, "the pain never subsides."

He pulled her in tight, his body overcome with sadness, "I'm so sorry Alex," and even saying it felt inadequate.

"Shhhhhh," she shushed into his neck, "this is all part of who we are, and right now I just want to get away from that for a while."

They sat still on her bed, listening to each other's breathing in the low light of her side lamp. She tugged at his left hand, while she breathed into his neck, "can you make this all go away?"

For the next few hours they tried desperately to make it all go away. Exhausted, they finally passed out on sheets that would make any CSU team thoroughly excited about the DNA possibilities.

Tomorrow was their day off, and the day after that would be a day spent with his mother at Carmel Ridge. The new week would kick off with an investigation of Professor Roth, professor of architecture at Madison University. But no matter how he looked at it, no matter how much he tried to pretend that life moved on, that they were the same old Goren and Eames, it was just so preposterous. He'd taken on a grand new tricky nexus and was just about to discover how complex his waking life could become.

TBC

AN: Cheers to all the reviewers. I've taken much of what you've had to say into consideration. It's all so very helpful. Thanks again.


	13. Ms Anna Mason

_ChapterThirteen_

_Smells, morning sickness, queasiness at the morgue, general dizziness and sensitivity to temperature?_

_Afterwards she bites back at him for asking, "We're at work . . . and yes, I'm fine. You know I have to pull my own weight."_

_Hormones he decides._

Robert Goren sat quietly in an interrogation room at One Police Plaza. Sometimes he became lost in the pattern of the repeating grey squares that encompassed the utilitarian walls. Nearly a month had passed since he and Eames decided to go against the sound departmental regulations that forbade the sexual relationship of two working partners.

Without notice, the interrogation door cracked open and two uniformed officers escorted Anna Mason back from the restroom. The strong aroma of an unfamiliar type of tea tree oil (the very same that made Eames leave the room in the first place) filled his nostrils.

"Ms. Mason," he gestured for her to return to her seat, "I'm glad you could, uh, return."

He nodded to the two officers, indicating that they could leave the room.

"Where'd yo' partner go off to?"

"She, uh, also had to visit the ladies' room."

"I didn't see her inna' can."

He chuckled, "yes, there is an advantage to working here."

Anna nodded, and he couldn't help notice how thickly the product had been worked into her very tight dark curly hair. He also couldn't help note that the old Eames would not have been so sensitive to the aroma. The complexity of pregnancy continued to take him by surprise.

"Anna?" he played nervously with his blue mechanical pencil, "I think we need to talk about him," he rose up to his full six foot four inches and walked to her side of the table.

"Don't know what'cha talkin' about," her eyes shifted downward.

"But I think you do," he sat down next to her, getting so close that he could see every mole on the right hand side of her face. Even up close and personal, she was a very beautiful woman; "he didn't treat you right, did he?"

He watched her expression slowly harden as he continued, "he didn't respect you, he didn't treat you the way you deserve to be treated. I mean, he wants you, right? Well he can't have it both ways."

"An' you unnastand, huh, big good-lookin' white man like you?"

He quieted, and wondered if he should dig deeper or hold back. Eames wasn't here with him; he bit at the inside of his lip and tried very hard not to feel resentful about it.

He decided to push, "I understand," he started tentatively, "that you reached your limit. You, uh, you refused to take anymore of his demeaning behavior."

"Anna," he paused as he chose his words with extreme care, "this man of privilege asked you for everything, and then he promised that he'd pay for your services, and you did your job, uh you know, you did what you were asked to do, uh . . . completed your end of the contract."

"He got cash, ya know," she muttered angrily, "it's not like…"

"Exactly," he interrupted, "he's wealthy, famous, he should have just paid you, taken care of you and been done with it."

She snorted back at him, "You go down on yo' hos for free? Cuz don'cha think I axed him . . ."

"Anna, please," he pushed in closer, his pointer finger apparently getting to close to her personal space because she blocked and brushed his left hand back to the side, he ignored this and continued to rally, "don't get off task here. Your alibi won't hold up, both Janet and Flygirl told me that you'd left the club a half hour earlier than you told Detective Eames."

"You get outta my personal space now," she growled, "you gonna hafta pay if you gonna be that close, ya hear? Ain't your ho."

His frustration was growing, where the fuck was Eames? He was going in circles and he needed her help to get the admission he was after.

The sad truth was that Anna Mason did not have the luxury of family, friends, power or wealth, (unlike that of the victim's family), to call in for a legal advocate. In fact, if the case wasn't high profile, she'd have nothing more than an assigned public defender. But now, (and only because of the other party involved), time was of the essence. As soon as the entertainment world got one whiff of this impropriety, a lawyer would be bouncing up the steps to help raise his/her notoriety in this world. It was truly a disgusting process.

"You waitin' for her," Anna noted, "she yo' boss, she keep you in check too."

"The alibi?" he tried again to reign her back on track.

"Janet and Flygirl are lyin' bitches," she cackled, "you takin' the word of a ho 'gainst a ho."

"If I worked as hard as you have, pulling myself off the streets while slowly working up the ladder to more reputable clients, and then this? I'd be upset enough to do something I might not usually have to resort too also."

"Can't trip me up big man," Anna snorted again, "sum big fancy white man with a law degree gonna come and take care of me, y'hear? I don't have to tell you nuthin."

He exhaled slowly, trying desperately not to give away any frustration as she continued to rant. This wasn't working. Anna had a high emotional quotient, and on top of it all, she was familiar with the law. He finally pulled out of her personal space before standing up slowly, towering over his suspect. Now it was time to use physical intimidation (as if that was going to work), as her personal rant continued at a steady rate …

". . . an you better hope yo' boss woman come back here and help yo' sorry ass out. I ain't gonna be fucked 'round no more by you white boys."

He nodded at her stiffly and left the room. Motioning to a few of the officers to keep watch at the door, he made a bee-line for his desk, avoiding anyone who wasn't Eames. As soon as he turned the corner and the main floor was in full view, it was obvious that Eames wasn't there. So, where the hell was she?

He back-tracked past the interrogation rooms and stood outside the two restrooms that were for Major Case personnel's use only. No perps or suspects allowed. He paused before entering the women's room, paused a good thirty seconds. Then, he held his breath and pushed inside. To his relief, there were no women milling around the common area (which was no huge surprise considering that he could count on his finger how many female detectives were on this floor.)

He leaned in and slowly tilted his head to get a look under the stalls, just a peek mind you to see if he could recognize her feet. And there they were, third stall to the back, but strangely they were juxtaposed as though they were facing the toilet.

"Eames?" he queried.

"I'm okay," she groaned, "I, um, I'm a bit dizzy though – and I lost most of my breakfast."

"Should I . . ." he paused not really knowing what he should say.

"Give me a second," she sighed, "I don't want to move too fast."

"Okay," he worried, "I'm not done with Anna Mason, uh, will you be able to join us soon?"

"Fair question," she murmured, "I don't know if I can push through it today, the smell . . . that stuff she's got on her hair is killing me."

He nodded even though she couldn't see him.

"Stevens? Deakins? Kaminski? Is there anyone who can fill in temporarily?"

"Uh, no," he thought aloud, "Well, I don't know, uh, maybe. Okay. I'll um figure it out," and he let the door slam behind him. He didn't ask her if she needed help, he was too upset. Too childishly upset, but damnit! What the fuck Eames? This happened last week at the morgue. She had to leave because something made her queasy and therefore she couldn't be present to help be his usual bouncing board. No offense, but Rodgers just didn't cut it for him. Who was he kidding? No one did.

He steeled himself for a new line of attack as he returned to the interrogation room.

"Where Detective Eames?" Anna Mason inquired suspiciously.

"She's not coming back Ms. Mason," he sat down across from her in a very business like manner, "and she's not likely to be available for the rest of the day."

"Now, Ms. Mason, if you really feel like the legal aid you will receive will put your interests first," he said slowly, "above and beyond their own self-interests, then you should . . ."

"Don give me that shit," she spit out, "tha's all you got? Like you ain't got no self-interest."

"Your right, I do have a self-interest," he responded quickly, "my self-interest is my job, which is in fact to solve this crime."

"She let you have it, din' she?" Anna's eyes lowered, "you ain't got the heart since you walked back through that there door. She got that pow'r over you? Yeaahh, I see it."

He again refused to respond, but stood up quietly to leave the room, "Excuse me, Ms. Mason," was all he could muster before he lost his temper entirely.

When he reached his desk, he sat down heavily, his elbows hitting the desktop roughly as they cradled his head. He knew many of the detectives watched him, talked about him, knew about his weakness in temperament; his sensitive and volatile nature. He tried not to dwell on their endless chatter as it caused him to obsess, not to mention to become downright paranoid. Eames had still not returned to her desk, should he check on her? Should he apologize for being such an insensitive asshole?

Before he could decide on any suitable action, he watched as Eames walked out of Deakins office, bearing straight for him. Shit!

There was a file in her hand, and she pushed her hair away from her eyes before placing the file in front of him, her face still pale against the fluorescent office lights, "Detective Bishop will be here starting next week."

His squinted at the file and frowned visibly, before absently pushing the file to the side, "until then?"

"Deakins said he'll be present for interrogations for the next couple of work days."

"I have to go home now," she spoke rather curtly, "I'll be in tomorrow, but I'll be confined to my workspace until I'm able to see someone about this nausea and fatigue."

He nodded, but refused to meet her eyes, "okay," he added simply, while inside he felt anger radiating through every pore.

"I have an appointment first thing next week," she noted sharply, "an early ultrasound, because of a few risk factors."

He nodded again, trying to appear nonchalant, out of the corner of his eyes he could see the color returning to her face. Her cheeks appeared rosier, but contrasted against her down-turned eyebrows, he safely assumed that she was highly irate with him.

"I'll see you tomorrow then," he mumbled, rotating papers on his desk indiscriminately.

"Wonderful," Eames asserted, before she gathered her personal belongings and winter attire. Her quick glare was disconcerting at best, and he felt a wave of self-loathing and disgust cut through him.

He remained mute as he watched her walk away from him; impotent at best. He waited and watched out of his periphery until the elevator doors enclosed around her. He didn't want to, but he slowly dragged the file back towards him, solemnly opening the flap. He quickly skimmed through Bishops' basic personnel information and NYPD profile. Suddenly, a bright yellow color caught his attention as he rifled through the file randomly. It was a rubric-like chart with an oversized yellow sticky on the top section. He couldn't help but notice Eames' personal handwriting:

_Captain,_

_While it seems that we have a limited pool to choose from, I find that Detective Bishop may be our best choice. After initial interviews, I feel that she is the most open minded of all the candidates. She is eager to sort out the truth, and I feel that she will be able to take direction and learn from her new mentor, (Detective Goren). I can't say with certainty that she is the perfect match, but she will certainly be the best match for the time being. _

_I will remain on desk-duty as long as I continue to be an effective detective for Major Case. I hold nothing but deep praise and confidence for that of my partner Detective Goren. He will hold the post, and as I see, will be an effective senior partner to Detective Bishop._

_- Alex Eames_

He flipped the sticky up to look over an unconventional handmade rubric, possibly crafted by his senior partner. It seemed carefully keyed to his personality, which clearly indicated that she'd put in both the time and and effort to gather all the relevant information necessary to make the best decision for his behalf. He noticed Deakins handwriting at the bottom of the page in pencil:

_I feel like you have a pretty good handle on this Alex. Let's start going through the pile of potential candidates next Tuesday._

_-Deakins_

Suddenly, he felt pelted down from the years of Catholic guilt and shame inculcated into his brain. He felt sick, he felt all the things he never wanted to feel about his relationship with Eames. His brain flickered back to the interrogation room from over one week ago when he'd been sitting _mono e mono_ with Julian Bello:

"You love her," he stated simply, when in fact he already knew the answer to his question. He could read the truth in Julian's eyes; in his actions and in the way his voice quivered when he spoke of his partner in crime, Sylvia Campbell.

"We don't do very well without each other," was all Julian could muster before two uniformed police officers escorted him in handcuffs out of the room.

Goren felt his heart twinge and his left thigh suddenly cramped in pain for a second or two. He remembered what a strange coincidence it was, considering that it was exactly the same area where he'd been injured nearly a month ago, right about the time when he and Eames had first consummated their relationship.

"We don't do very well without each other," he whispered to himself. The thought filled his soul with a deep sickening pain and made him wonder what his new Eames-less future would hold. He was already missing her, already yearning for her and she hadn't been away from him as his partner but for a day. Times were about to get rough, and he was just going to have to learn how to cope.

TBC


	14. Enter detective Bishop

_Chapter Fourteen_

Returning to his apartment with Thai takeout was becoming a depressingly familiar scenario. Once inside, he set down his Styrofoam enclosed dinner and immediately turned up the heat on his thermostat. March wasn't proving to be a warm month either.

Fortunately, the _pad thai _warmed his belly, as did the green tea he heated up on the stove. The weekend was finally here, and today was the official last day Eames would be his partner, until after the baby, of course. Right? Oh, but there was still the issue of that inane fear that bubbled up in the back of his head – the one that reasoned that perhaps she wouldn't be coming back at all.

As it was a weekend night, he curled up on his armchair with a good read and a cup of green tea. Eames had gifted him the book last week before things started to get tense between them. She said it had just hit the bookshelves, and that it had received positive reviews from the _Times_. So now, he continued to flip through his personal copy of _Getting Your Life Back Together When You Have Schizophrenia_. He knew she'd given him the copy because of his mother, I mean, it hadn't been for him, right? He quickly pushed that particular damaging thought far from his mind, but found himself sneaking a peak back at the Van Gogh bio that he'd renewed several times over. Two quotes taken from Vincent's letters to his brother Theo continued to haunt and confuse him.

The first was: _It is good to love many things, for therein lies true strength; whosoever loves much, performs and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is well done._

The second was in reference to the profession of justice (besides that of art) being a holy endeavor and it went something like this: _It may be that people who do nothing but fall in love are more serious and holier than those who sacrifice their love and their hearts to an idea . . ._

The second idea was much more confusing and disturbing to him on many levels. This concept of love came at the most inconvienient time as far as he was concerned. Now as he was particularly conflicted on which path to walk. So many things tripped him up lately, and most of it had to do with Eames. Was she the kind of love that Vincent was referring to? Should he listen to his heart, or follow his intellect? He'd never truly had the concept of unconditional love down. Rather, the rational mindset had proved to be a better life support, and then Eames had to come along and destroy his concept of everything he had previously known to be true.

Suddenly he heard and felt the vibration of his cell phone against his left outside thigh: the display read Eames.

"Goren."

"Hey, it's me."

"Who's me?" he smiled.

"Don't play with me," she scowled, "you think I don't know you check your ID before you pick up?"

"I miss you Eames," was all he could manage, and oh how he meant it. He missed her to the core. All of the built up anger from the past week quickly dissipated after he left the office.

And with that said, there was an awkward silence over the phone. Was she still upset with him? Their relationship during the past few days at work, (since the interrogation with Anna Mason), could be described as tenuous, workman-like, awkward and downright stressful.

He heard her sigh.

"Bobby?"

Now it was his turn to go mute.

"Bobby? What is all this about?"

He found himself unable to respond as he rotated a highlighter between his thumb and forefinger.

"It's the weekend," she hinted.

"Look,' he finally began, "uh, I had some reading and, uh…"

"We've never spent a weekend apart since we started ... being more than partners," he quickly noted the twinge of concern in her voice, "I know I shouldn't assume, but why are you in Brooklyn and I'm all the way out here, I mean . . . I've got a reading light in my bedroom."

"I thought you didn't want to see me," he answered flatly, and truthfully for that matter, (well, he was also partially punishing himself for being such an inconsiderate boyfriend.)

"I see," her voice wavered slightly, "there are some things that I was hoping we could talk through. You see I've got this ultrasound and I'm a little . . . well, I was hoping that maybe you'd want to come with me to the appointment and, you know you can be so calming for me, it's all those rational smarts you got that I've learned never to bet against."

"You're not mad at me?" he blurted out, unable to mask his bewilderment.

"Well," she paused, "I've been confused by you over the past week, I don't always know where you are coming from, and I, well I was hoping that you would better understand where I've been coming from as I've dealt with some of my physical limitations."

"I'm really sorry Eame, Alex, I, uh…." he paused, "I have to admit that I'm, uh, very conflicted and confused about how to deal with our relationship and the job – I feel like I'm basically doing a shitty job at both of them," he shook his head, "actually I know that I'm doing a shitty job at at least one of them."

"And that's it," her voice beamed as if a connection was made, "I . . . I feel terrible about how this is affecting, I mean how much the pregnancy is affecting our work relationship. Call me naïve, I didn't know being pregnant would so thoroughly both physically and mentally affect the way I'm use to doing the job. Truth be told, it's frustrating the hell out of me," she paused, "so, I can only imagine how much it is affecting you."

"No, Alex," he started.

"Oh, I've cut back," she laughed, "if I hadn't been impeded by intense nausea last week, I would have kicked your ass, senior partner to junior partner, right then and there."

"I'm glad to hear the old Eames on the other end of this phone," he chuckled, true relief flooding his system.

"So are you going to get off your behind and get here in time for the kiss and make up session?"

"I'm already there," he answered, wasting no time as he grabbed a handful of books, files and mechanical pencils and tucked them neatly into an overnight bag.

* * *

A little over an hour later, they found comfort in each other's arms. This had been there first major tiff, and it had been more painful than he'd like to admit. He took major comfort knowing that she'd missed him as much as he'd missed her, this was quite evident in the way she attacked him as soon as he walked through the door.

"It's been almost a week," she huffed.

"Too long, indeed" he smiled sadly, pulling her into a tight hug, his nose buried in her hair.

"Eames," he exclaimed rather suddenly, "I can feel your belly now. It's so . . ." he paused in shock, unable to describe his feelings.

"It's really surreal for me too," she smiled, playing with the back of his hair (he loved when she did that).

"So," he nudged her, "did I make it in time for the make up session?"

She nodded, her brown eyes like saucers, "Oh yes – very much so,"

He let her take charge as she pulled him into the bedroom, entertaining him greatly as he lay in the middle of her bed.

"I've always wanted to do this to you," her eyes were laughing as she said it, her fingers busy fumbling with his belt buckle.

He was numb, half delirious with anticipation as he watched her hands work through the layers of clothes that covered his most sensitive organs.

"Eames," he groaned, unable to function at any level of rational, considering that her soft lips and strong fingers were busy – playing over every square inch of him. He gripped at the bed linens, the mattress, anything but the back of her head.

He found that it was maddeningly tempting to want to hold and control the back of a women's head when she was manipulating him in such a matter, but his empathetic nature told him that such an act would be rude. When it came down to it, she was favoring him, and what if he pushed down to hard? It seemed like the natural thing to do, and it's exactly what he wanted to do right now; impale Eames' head – again and again and again.

By this point, however he couldn't see anymore and he was having a hard time breathing, the involuntary muscles of his lower extremities were now dictating his every move. His hands clutched deep into the mattress fabric as he gasped for air, "Eames," he begged her again and again, she had his full attention. "Eames," he pleaded, his heart pounding, his body threatening a minor cardiac arrest, his hips flexing impatiently as sweat clung uncomfortably to every article of clothing he still wore, (she'd only released the bare minimum, and his legs trembled accordingly; trapped unfairly in his trouser legs).

All the stress of the week lay in front of him, waiting to be obliterated by this simple primitive act. His senior partner was aggressive, and well-educated, touching outlying sensitive areas with expertise, areas that sent him into new throes of pleasure, "Eames I'm going to …" was all the warning he could provide. She applied pressure at the exact time, and later when he came too, he was surprised at the intensity of his orgasm.

"That spot," he gasped, stars still spinning around his head, punctuated by sharp convulsions.

"Prostate." Eames looked very proud of herself, "You're not the only one who reads, you know?"

He must have raised an eyebrow or two, her reaction to his said it all.

"Don't stop reading," he panted, trying to catch his breath, "you're the first, uh, person to get that personal with me and it was, uh…. wow," he shifted, a bit uncomfortably, working himself off the bed with some effort, trying to figure out how to get out of his sweaty clothes, and wipe away all evidence of body fluid that was leaking everywhere (and he hated when it dried to him – it was on his top ten list of things he avoided.)

She'd read his mind and handed him a washcloth, which he accepted once he managed to get off the bed without tripping over his pants, "there's clothes you left last time, washed of course," she offered.

"Can I shower?"

She nodded, following behind him with a stack of new towels. Once cocooned in her bathroom, he stuck his nose into the clean clothes and sniffed. It was surreal to have Eames markedly distinct smell clinging to his clothes. Another brand, he mentally noted, still uncertain if he liked the idea of her branding him.

Post shower, the mirror was still heavy with condensation, he turned on the fan, and after a while he was able to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His sideburns had grown out, his face was relatively clean shaven and even though he was not nearly as cut as his youthful self, he remained mostly trim, it was all thanks to his towering height which in turn drove his metabolism. The flush in his face was still present, it was more like a post-orgasmic glow. Eames had really worked him over.

He unconsciously pulled out a drawer looking for floss, only to stumble upon a small open faced square jewelry box. It started out as an innocent gesture, as he only wanted to see what kind of jewelry she was interested in, (after all she rarely wore any jewelry to speak of, and her hair usually obscured her earrings).

But curiosity can be a bitch, and all he'd managed to discover was two worn gold wedding bands, sitting astride one another. They looked sadly forlorn, and he couldn't help but finger them, they were matching bands, a simple Celtic design – Eames' ring was small, with a modest diamond embedded on the outside. Joe's ring was the more traditional style. A small black and white photo was just underneath the bands, he moved the rings to the side in order to inspect the photo.

It was the sort of photo that looked to be produced at a common photo booth. Usually the photos came in a string of four, but this one had been clipped from its companions.

The first thing he noticed while studying the photo was that Eames looked so young. It nearly stopped his heart, she was but a baby in this photo, innocent, and untouched by life's brutal wounds. Joe looked quite young too, complete with an infectious grin and achingly handsome. And it wasn't hard to imagine why Joe wouldn't be at the top of his game, just look at who he'd won over?

As he stared at the photo, he was forced to come to terms with a few overarching facts: he would never be Eames' first and true love, and he would never be the guy who won over Eames' heart. He flipped the photo over to see if there was a date or any signage, only to find; _No one could love you more than I – love J _scrawled in handwriting that he knew immediately wasn't Eames.

He felt a little ill, born of pure jealousy, knowing that someone had possessed her so. And he'd never have the Eames in the photo, the Eames who was carefree and untouched by fear, sadness, loneliness, and a whole host of pure sorrow and suffering. Perhaps it was his cross to bear…

He placed the rings and photo back into the container with care, feeling a bit dirty about the whole affair, as if he'd seen something he was not supposed to see, to read something that was not for his eyes, and to do it without Eames' knowledge and consent.

He returned to her adjoined bedroom, with warm, clean clothes that smelled of Eames. She lay on her bed, reading lamp on, the book he purchased for her on pregnancy was resting on her round tummy.

"Hi beautiful," he whispered throatily near her ear.

"You think?" she giggled, gesturing to her modest pajamas, pinned up hair, and oversized wool socks.

"I don't think," he stated sidling up next to her on the bed, "I know."

He watched her smirk, "get over here," she pushed her pillow and book to the side, "I am so unbelievably horny!"

"Are you using me?" he laughed, "you really are quite aggressive tonight," he smiled pulling her in touch closer, before brushing a few hairs out of her eyes. They were the same brilliant soft brown lenses that he could lose himself in forever.

She turned her head to the side, and he knew in an instant that she'd found him out.

"What's wrong?"

He shook his head, "nothing," he snuggled in closer, resting his head on her shoulder.

"You'll be great next week," she played with his right sideburn, "and," she whispered, "I'll still be sitting across from you, staring right back into your Santa mug."

Only he knew that his sadness wasn't solely about next week, but he was happy to let her believe that all of his woe lay with the coming temporary partnership. He'd rather Eames not be privy to the chief insecurities and jealousy that waged war over him as he compared himself with her former husband.

* * *

And with that, the weekend passed by too quickly. He'd parted from Eames' apartment Sunday morning and had spent the rest of the day with his mother (in that dreaded institutional setting. Using the noxious hand soap that always produced the same violent reaction as walking by the Carmel Ridge cafeteria, it was the canned vegetables stewing under the heating lamps that made his stomach lurch).

So when he sat at his desk Monday morning finalizing paperwork regarding Anna Mason, he'd nearly forgotten that Detective Bishop would be joining the crew today. Eames desk was obviously vacant, yet it still early, the morning light was just starting to breach the blinders of the eleventh floor.

That's when he noticed a young woman milling around the office. Inconspicuous at best, she remotely reminded him of the girl from the _X-files _television program. He could sense her anxiety, the way she carried her shoulders, the tenseness in her lower neck, the way she held her arms – crossed tightly with her fingers embedded in each forearm.

With his best stealth at play, he pretended to carry on at his desk, shifting through files while secretly watching her through squinted eyes. She's green, he thought, she doesn't know how to carry herself, and she will be a detriment on the job, after all - she's got no poker face. To top everything off, he didn't like the way she wore her hair, it spoke to him of an inner-rigidness or a conservative nature perhaps, and her clothing choices seemed only to reinforce his presumptions.

When he found himself so completely absorbed in observing her that he could no longer accomplish any real task at hand, he promptly initiated their first meeting, "Detective Bishop?"

She immediately turned towards him, cocking her head, eyebrows quizzical, "me?" she mouthed while simultaneously gesturing towards herself.

He nodded, and watched her work her way mechanically around the industrial metallic desks. She presumed too quickly to sit at Eames' desk, only to hesitate when he produced a most distasteful expression.

He watched her immediately pull up a side chair, and sat down aside him, (at least she learned quickly, he mused). He would try to keep an open mind. Eames had made the effort, so he should too.

And within the hour, they received their first working assignment. The vic was Katya Jalenak, girlfriend to _Sentinel_ employee Carl Hines. It was during their first few hours together that it became quite evident that Bishop was having a difficult time following his train of thought. Perhaps Eames did too, but Eames had a much better poker face. It was going to be a long hall and as much as he realized he shouldn't compare Bishop to Eames, yet it was nearly impossible for him not to do so.

Returning to One Police Plaza, by the first time he noticed Eames he was already flustered and deep in thought processing the days' events. All he could do was largely ignore her, already wallowing in his own self-pity. Right now, Bishop was busy shifting through Katya's personal belongings recovered from Hines's apartment.

"Looks like she missed as many pills as she took." Bishop proudly revealed a package of birth control pills.

"Or probably too stoned to remember, her tox screen is positive for coke and alcohol," Eames noted smugly, "The ME puts the time of death just around midnight."

His eyes were lowered and he refused to make eye contact. He caught Eames stealing a peak, but at this point they were just playing discreet games. Eames' face could be described as bemused.

He sat back and tried to digest the gathered information. For a moment he thought Eames might have stepped out of the room, but then he realized she was still just to the right of Bishop, head cocked in mid-interest when Bishop revealed that Katya was bankrupting herself with ATM fees.

"Late night withdrawals?" Eames interjected.

Bishop nodded, "yeah."

"Cash machines at strip bars charge you a ten percent premium, a two hundred dollar lapdance will cost you two hundred and twenty, "

"See what you miss not working in vice?" He smirked while waggling his left pointer finger wildly in the air.

'Behave' Eames broadcast silently, though he caught the corners of her mouth creep upwards before she exited the room, leaving him alone once again with Bishop.

* * *

Twenty minutes later Eames caught him near their favorite vending machine, "are you coming today?"

"You really want me to?"

She didn't answer him, and by not doing so, he knew she meant business.

"I, uh, don't want to be in the way of your family."

"Are you coming?" she asked more forcefully.

"I'll be there for you," he nodded.

"Whatcha think?" she nodded towards their desk area, which now included Bishop, who was busily working at his desk.

"I miss you Eames," he said quietly, shifting his eyes to make sure no one else was within earshot.

"I'll see you in a little bit," she smiled warmly, "Text me if you get lost," her hand gently grazing his arm before she left in the direction of the elevator. Before he knew it, the elevator swallowed her whole, and he was alone.

"I don't text Eames," he whispered to no one in particular.

TBC

A.N. Thanks to all the reviewers! You are all keeping me in line. :)


	15. The ultrasound

_Chapter Fifteen_

He hated hospitals, they shared many of the same industrial smells and materials that most mental institutions had – the same chemicals, rubber gloves, plastic syringes, antiseptics and antibacterial solutions, not to mention the same industrial food services.

Right now all he wanted to do was get the hell out of here. He wanted to get back to work, even if it meant working with Bishop.

Instead, he found himself standing by himself in a long hallway, leaning against a wall outside of Eames' room. Inside that room, Eames was surrounded by family; her sister and brother-in-law's excited voices contrasted sharply against the ultrasound technician's mild rather monotone verbalizations. The important words came through most clearly: measurements indicate good health, a singleton, attached where it was supposed to be, remnants of the tail were here, heart beating within a normal range, head here, arm and leg buds here…

He sighed a silent sigh of relief, and scratched the back of his head. What was he doing here again? Before the thought could come to a completion, Eames' (gasp) sister Liz was nearly tugging at his suit jacket.

"Hi, uh, are you Detective Goren?"

"Yes."

"Nice to meet you, um, she wants you to come in."

"Oh," he was a bit surprised, "really?"

Eames's sister smiled, it was genetically the same warm smile and it 'weirded' him out for a few moments. He reflexively grabbed the back of his neck as he tentatively edged his way into her room.

There she was in full view, lying on an exam table, her belly exposed with a slight sheen of colorless gel. He was faced with a kind of intimacy that he'd never experienced in a relationship. (Did her sister know about them?)

For a moment they're eyes made contact, and true to form, Eames' eyes were warm and inviting. Her smile infectious, "Come in, come in," she gestured overtly, "look," she pointed to the black and white monitor, "everything is where it is supposed to be."

He shook his head in acknowledgement and leaned in as close as he could to the screen. It was all a self-distraction really. A wave of emotion hit him over the head and if he didn't distract himself, he might not be able to disguise all the feelings he was processing right now.

"Is, uh, is that . . ."

"That is the heart beating," the technician smiled finally pulling the sensor away while deftly wiping the gel from Eames' now slightly swollen mid-section.

Immediately after he turned away from Eames in order to afford her some privacy as she pulled the shirt back over her belly, he quickly became aware of his own light – headedness.

"Excuse me," he turned quickly and moved back out of the room and sat down on the first available chair.

He leaned over with his head between his knees and began to breath deeply through his nose. "Ten, nine, eight, seven . . . " (he began counting backwards in his head) and was only startled out of his countdown by her voice.

"Bobby?"

He looked up automatically only to find her leaning down by his chair on one knee, her face only inches away from his, "thanks for coming," she whispered while simultaneously rubbing her hand gently between his shoulder blades, "it meant so much for you to be here."

A slight turn and his cheek was now only centimeters away from her most adorable nose, he glanced up into her eyes and was taken back. Her eyes were shining with a thin clear coat of moisture.

"Eames," it came out in a gravelly voice, so he cleared his throat and reached tentatively for her hand. When he opened his mouth and nothing came out, he felt her tiny warm hand wrap around his large, thin fingers.

"I know," she said in a voice that was barely audible.

And for a small moment in time they were able to simply be still, strangely synchronized for the first time outside of work.

Once again, he was tormented by the inner turmoil created by his two 'conflicting masters.' The act of interrupting this intimate shared moment, this important connection with Eames was juxtaposed against his intense need to get back in the game (and solve that goddamned puzzle). As usual, the rational master won out as he blurted, "Uh, I've gotta get back soon," almost involuntarily.

Then just as quickly, he bowed down to his other master, "is there, uh, is there anything else you need?"

"Could you ride with me?" Eames hesitated before adding, "I could drop you back at the station."

"Sure," he nodded fervently, taking in one more deep breath before he steadied himself back to a standing position.

They walked down the hallway together and he had to fight the impulse to hold her hand.

"Does your sister know?"

Eames spoke carefully as if in reflection, "I do believe that she has a suspicion."

* * *

The ride from the hospital to the station was mostly silent, as they were both deep in thought, and out of respect, neither seemed to want to disturb the other.

"I'll see you tonight?"

He nodded as he collected a few work materials out of her SUV, smiling a bit sheepishly before closing the door behind her.

Then tragically (tragically for him) they went their own separate ways.

TBC

A.N. Short but sweet – but that's what I get for that last chapter which was too damned long. Again, thanks to all those who are sticking with this crazy story.


	16. The senior detective

_Chapter Sixteen_

Most of the time he could best describe his current situation as in relation to having a partial lobotomy, as if part of his fucking brain had been removed. Before Bishop, everything made sense. He could fire off an idea to his bouncing board (Eames) and she could run with it, reflect the idea back, or give him some goddamned indication that he was on the right track. Sometimes it was the simple emotional support (the 'I like your idea, lets go with it – no, you are not crazy, I trust you, I'm in it for the long hall, Robert Goren').

Now he was pacing in one of the many conference rooms, the white board filled to the brim with squiggles, a meaningless construct to most. He fucking hated the way Bishop would look at him: her eyes vacant, and filled with either general mistrust or outright confusion. Bishop was nothing more than a combination of all the other partners he'd tangoed with over the years. (Eames, where the fuck are you?)

Sadly, he knew where Eames was: she in charge of a multitude of assorted cases, quarantined off to the world of desk duty: a strange world that revolved around some of Deakins' most pressing cases - cases that may or may not be even remotely connected with Goren's own stack of working files.

But back to his current frustrations on hand, he mentally counted the many ways that Bishop was just not stacking up. Besides Bishop's obvious lack of emotional support, Bishop didn't want to drive the car or the computer for that matter, she didn't like the way he handled confrontation, she didn't understand how to derive information from suspects nor could she find a suitable role to play with him once they'd hit the interrogation room, she couldn't follow his train of thought, not to mention that sometimes they couldn't even find a physical stride (forget a mental stride) I mean, last week he nearly bumped her off the street because she literally didn't seem to have sound spatial judgment . . . and the list just went fucking on and on.

He continued to pace up and back in the conference room, _Expo_ dry erase marker smudges decorated the cuff of his sleeves, stained the tips of his fingers and overloaded his olfactory membrane. What was this perp doing? He's sad. He's overwhelmed. Depressed? Yes. Depressed.

"Bishop!" he hollered loud enough that he knew she'd be able to hear him across the floor; as the door to the conference room was slightly ajar.

Within seconds, her bright red mane and pallid forehead came jetting into the room. He frowned because he knew that her immediate response had nothing to do with her authentic concern for him or the case (both noble causes), but rather because she was loathe for him to unleash the kind of confrontation she found unsuitable for a detective of his or her caliber. He brushed away his rather reactive feelings quickly, (because dwelling upon them enraged his inner sensibilities), and acting on emotion alone would not further the outcome of this case.

Bishop looked up at him with intense eyes, as she was also unable to hide her irritation with his peculiar mannerisms.

"He, uh, … he's depressed."

"I'm sorry?"

"This type of, uh, depression is severe, but he is in fact . . . he has good coping skills – he's a functioning manic."

"And so, you believe he was incapable . . . "

"Incapable yes, and that makes his fiancée Christine's statements untruthful."

"But why would Christine . . ." he watched as her speech slowed to a halt, (Eames would have figured it out in a heartbeat), but working with Bishop in this matter was a little like leading a horse to water.

"Oh," she finally conceded as the light bulb clicked on, "so that means that Mark isn't just our suspect . . . he could be in danger!"

He nodded quickly while he pulled Mark's information and address from a sticky from the corked bulletin board, "call for backup."

She nodded and followed closely behind as they sprinted towards the elevators, jackets in hand.

* * *

His heart was beating in a near frenzy as he enters the stairwell of Mark Edelman's apartment. There was no time for the SWAT squad or police issue bullet-proof vest, a hit was going down and it was only a matter of time. He and Bishop hopped into a squad car, (Bishops couldn't drive like Eames – surprise!), and this was the fastest way to the potential scene-of-a-crime, and with some bona-fide back-up. His mind was exploding from the inside out. He should have seen this, it was so simple, but Eames wasn't here and he would have known what the fuck was going on so much sooner if Eames were here. And for fuck's sake, he had to stop blaming Eames – it wasn't her fault, right?

The squad car screeched to a halt, he didn't even wait for Bishop as he leapt from the passenger's side, gun already in hand. "Police," he barked, as he stepped past the doorman, "Where's the fucking stairwell?"

And with that he was racing up the steps, his breath two steps behind, his thighs begging to cramp as he wheeled past the second floor, Edelman was on the third. He pushed through the security door on the third floor and bolted, slightly disoriented down the hallway, once he had checked properly to see if anyone was going to blow his head off. He faintly heard Bishop and the two additional officers in his wake, covering his blind-spot to the right and left, while he positioned himself carefully outside Mark Edelman's apartment. One, two, three, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!

"Mark Edelman?" he bellowed.

He quickly checked back behind him and in front, nodding to each of his back-up, quickly communicating his intention to bust through the door. Instinct was driving his every move, adrenaline pumping through his veins, BOOM!

He didn't feel the pain as he powered through the door, his piece leading the way, he could only hear his heart beating powerfully as it reverbrated through his skull, his heavy breathing in-between each ba-boom, ba-boom, "Mark?" his voice seemed foreign to him, and far away as if traveling though a tunnel.

"Mark?"

"Clear," he heard one of the officers yell as that officer probed into the guest bathroom.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Bishop enter the kitchen, "clear."

He proceeded into the bedroom and was equally surprised to find nothing, nothing at fucking all, "he should have been at home."

Bishop looked equally stumped as the eerie silence echoed through the seemingly empty apartment, only the chatter from the police radio broke into that silence from time to time.

"Detective Goren?" the lead officer called out.

"Yes."

"You are the senior partner?"

"That's correct."

"I've got a patch from the additional backup downstairs."

He nodded and motioned the officer into the bedroom.

"They say there's a body in the alley between this building and the one to the direct east of . . ."

"Bishop!" he hollered at her for the second time today.

"Show me now," he commanded the lead officer.

He felt the nausea creeping up his esophagus as his legs pounded back down the metal stairwell, the sound of sirens wailing growing stronger as they approached street side.

He followed closely behind the lead officer, and quickly saw the lower half of a body, the top half slightly obscured from view, (as the body appeared to be housed between two disposal containers. And, fuck, it appeared to be an adult male).

At this point, he pushed past the lead officer and wedged his way by two uniforms stationed at the feet of the body.

"Goddamnit" he muttered when he recognized the vic.

"Goren?" Bishop queried.

He stepped away from the body in disgust; the anger was mounting from his mid core, yet at the same time, nausea had started saturating his upper GI tract as one of the many lovely side effects of a post adrenaline rush.

He pushed by her dejectedly as she approached the lifeless body of Mark Edelman.

"Goren?" Bishop called back again.

"Listen, you are the lead," and he could hear a touch of anger or perhaps fear in her voice.

It's true, he wasn't being very fair to her, but fuck it, Eames knew when to leave well enough alone. He needed to be left alone right now, and he'd apologize for his actions later. With everything said and done, he continued to walk away from her, his hand waving off any further communication attempts.

"Damn it Goren!"

His pace increased for two reasons, he didn't want to be any more unprofessional then he'd already been to Bishop, and secondly, he felt that he might have to get sick on the spot.

TBC

A.N. Life without Eames is tough, n'est pas? Thanks for reading!


	17. Dr Emil Skoda

_Chapter Seventeen_

"What's going on Bobby?"

It was hard to distract himself from the underlying smell of Old Spice. This was his captain's office, a plethora of knick-knacks, collectors mugs and NYPD regalia were littered haphazardly throughout the rather spacious office: an office with an exceptional view of the Brooklyn Bridge. But under the current circumstances, this was about as demeaning as it could get. Between these very walls he'd been hired, he'd met Eames for the first time, (yes, this was sacred ground - and it didn't escape him that he could be fired here as well: birth, death, true love - it all happened right here - the very sacraments of his existence lay between these hallowed walls), and sitting still wasn't easy, especially when facing his captain's latest inquiry.

"What happened out there?" Deakins motioned to the far conference room that was now blocked off from the general office circulation.

Goren didn't intend to come off as belligerent and insular, yet he was still fuming from the inside out. And the reason he was at a loss of words was because he himself was still processing the situation: a situation that could not be condensed into a neat, tidy black and white answer. It was complex, very complex.

It started the day before as he was staring at the lifeless Mark Edelman, the very life that he was unable to save, the life that could have been spared if he was not so handicapped by the loss of his partner Alexandra Eames. (But why blame Eames? This wasn't about her now – it was more of a reflection of what was going on with him.)

So truly, what was going on with him?

Ah, it was his fragile ego, mixed perhaps with his greatest fears realized. The realization that he in fact was the whack-job freak. He was the guy who would slowly fall into disrepair, (just like his mother). He'd be 'that guy,' you know, the one they would talk about in the department for years to come, 'the genius-freak,' who wasn't really a genius when his partner wasn't there to catch him.

Suddenly, Deakins familiar voice snapped him back into attention, "We've been through quite a bit over the past few years, but I have to tell you . . . I can't have you acting like this."

"I, uh…"

"You know Arthur Branch and his cronies have had you under their microscope since the Meyers' case. They are just looking for any reason to take you off my hands," Deakins sighed heavily, "and when something like this gets through the grapevine . . . Bobby, I need an answer. I need something. You can't act like this in a professional setting without it going right back to the top of the food chain."

He nodded slowly, sullenly at best.

"I'm going to send you home for the day to think about your response to this situation," Deakins voice seemed strangely resigned, "but I'm going to need something good before I can send you back out to work on your case-load," Deakins paused again clearly unsure of how he should proceed, "you are the senior partner now and you've got to start acting like it."

If he didn't know how to read his captain, he might push right back at the powers to be, or throw another mini-tantrum. Instead, and against all reason and emotion, he nodded briskly, his eyes trained to the floor, "I'm sorry," he managed hollowly, "I'm sorry that I …"

"Go home Bobby," Deakins imparted softly, "you'll have better perspective tomorrow – I'm sure of it."

It nearly made him nauseous when he saw Deakins smile weakly at him, or rather, that it had all come down to this. If he lost this, this fucking job, what could he possibly do with his life? This job and Eames – it was all he had. And Eames was part of the job, so without the job he'd lose his self-worth and the great love of his life, (all in one great swoop!).

"Eames is part of the job, but Eames isn't part of the job," he mumbled loosely, clearly unaware that he'd actually spoken the words aloud. Unaware up until he felt Deakins' hand on his shoulder.

"Bobby?"

He turned around sharply, meeting Deakins' eye for a split second.

"Are you okay?"

He nodded and turned to leave.

"No. Wait. Stay here." Deakins stated, while maneuvering around his desk.

"Who are you calling?"

"Your choice – Olivet, Skoda, Huang, . . ."

"No," he answered firmly, "No."

"This isn't a threat, or an option," Deakins added firmly, "if you want we can co-council with Eames, but again, this isn't an option."

"No," he pushed back, "No. Eames wasn't here when it happened, she doesn't have to be involved," he paused, "and I'll spill my guts now if that will make a difference."

"You'll tell me _all_ the factors involved in this latest . . ."

"Skoda," he finally conceded, because on quick reflection, he really didn't want to tell Deakins everything - and at this very moment, this seemed like the best stall tactic. And who knew? Maybe he could dance his way out of this one too.

* * *

Dr. Emil Skoda's private practice was rather modest. His office afforded him a small corner window with a view of the office building next door, a few plants, several framed diplomas, a worn leather couch, a handful of books, (most of which Goren had perused during his life – and a few that he owned, thanks to his mother's condition).

And even though this wasn't the first 'shrink' he'd dealt with, he found his palms sweating nonetheless. His mouth felt dry and he had to fight the urge to moisten his lips every few minutes.

"Detective Robert O. Goren?"

He nodded, but remained seated as Skoda entered the room.

Skoda smiled moderately, and sat down across from him, before picking up a white legal notepad.

"So, Robert," Skoda slowly initiated the first question, "why are you here today?"

"By the request of my captain."

"I see," Skota jotted down a few notes, "and what might your captain say is the reason for your visit?"

He felt his throat tighten, so he swallowed quickly and licked his lips, "to uh, to . . . to account for my behavior in the workplace."

"Do you need water?" Skoda offered.

He shook his head tightly, "no."

"So," Skoda carefully started, "there was an incident at your workplace?"

"I, uh," he paused, "I broke a whiteboard in a conference room in the presence of my temporary partner."

"A whiteboard?" Skoda's right eyebrow raised slightly, "let me clarify, as I am not trying to make light of the situation. Uh, how does one break a whiteboard?"

"It was, uh, mobile, um, on wheels and you can rotate the sides for uh, productivity reasons."

"So like the old fashioned chalkboards I had growing up in my elementary school classrooms," Skoda noted as he quickly scrawled across his pad. (It was driving him mad; by the way, I mean, what in the hell was he writing down?)

"I broke it when I pushed it back against the cork board, uh, which is attached to the wall behind it."

"Do you get frustrated on the job quite often?"

"Yes, uh, well no, I mean, I've been frustrated now more than I've been in the past."

"So, what does your situation look like now, or um, how is your situation different than it was in the past?"

And here was the same question presented again and again, what was it? What pushed him over the edge? Did it have to do with the fact that when he'd returned to the office the day after failing Mark Edelman, that he couldn't find one, not one of his favorite mechanical pencils? Was it the fact that when he made the effort to get Bishop a hot cup of departmental coffee before she arrived at her desk, he accidentally overheard her talking about him with another colleague? Was it that Bishop smiled and nodded her head in presumed agreement when the colleague empathized with the fact that she'd been assigned to the 'whack-job' of the department, (Davis, that passive aggressive bastard didn't have the _cajónes_ to say that to his face).

And the conversation was burned into his pre-frontal cortex:

_Davis: I'm sorry you got paired with him, he's always been the 'whack-job' of the department, you know?_

_Bishop: Well, he definitely is intense._

_Davis: Intense? (smiles) That's a nice way of putting it. You should have seen him before he was paired up with Eames. I heard he went through partners like water – I mean she must be blowing him daily to keep him so calm. Now that she's on leave . . . wow._

_Bishop: Well, he has a great record, so I must not be …_

_Davis: Stop it, he's nuts. I heard there's, you know a little (this is where Davis used the symbolic finger gesture for crazy) . . . that runs in the family gene pool – and so what if he's got this amazing record? I mean, that's all he's got or he wouldn't be at major case. If he can't work with anyone but Eames, then he's gonna be a junior partner his entire life. Eames will move up, you know, she's got connections. So without her, he'll crack like an egg._

"Uh, Robert?" Skoda prompted.

"Yes?"

"What is the situation like currently, and what do you believe is increasing your frustration?"

"I have a new partner."

Skoda nodded, a rather placid expression still painted on his face, "That's a big change. Tell me about that."

"Eames. Uh, Detective Alexandra Eames has been my partner for over four years at major case, but she is, uh, on desk-duty or uh, light activity until she well, uh, she's pregnant. She's a surrogate," he clarified, trying hard not to look too obvious as he glanced at the clock on the wall for the umpteenth time.

Skoda, stopped writing and turned the page of his notepad, "Hmmm, complex stuff," Skoda noted aloud before adding, "now before we get too far, I need to tell you that I'm going to ask you a few questions about you, or your background _per se_."

(No. No thank you Dr. Skoda.)

"As this is our first session together, it's necessary to probe a bit into your personal background so that I can make a fair assessment."

Goren swallowed again, licked his lips and glanced at the clock unconsciously.

"I can sense that you are a bit uncomfortable," Skoda lowered his notepad slightly, "and I understand, working for the NYPD now for over fifteen years . . ." he watched Skoda push his reading glasses up, "but I must reiterate that what you say in this room is completely confidential, and believe me, you would not be the first detective to sit in that chair.

"Ask," was all he could manage; he placed his left hand on his leg, the one that was starting to shake frenetically.

"Tell me a little bit about your parents and what was their relationship to yourself?"

"My father left my mother when I was a young, I have no relationship with him. My mother is a patient at Carmel Ridge, she has schizophrenia, which uh, I discovered around the age of seven." (He felt that if he spit things out quickly, short and factual-like, he could strangely distance himself or rather remove himself from the emotional tidal wave known as his family).

And Skoda was fast, but not fast enough to hide very telling facial twitches from the great detective Goren, or rather, the great whack-job Goren he thought derisively.

"How many brothers or sisters do you have?"

"I have a brother."

"Older or younger?"

"Older."

"Do you get along?"

"We were close when we were younger, uh, now, not so much."

"Does your brother have any illnesses?"

"Apart from an addictive personality and alcoholism?" he laughed, (and it was impossible to keep the sarcasm out of his voice).

"Who was your father or mother's favorite?"

"That question is irrelevant in relation to my father. He could give a shit."

"But your mother?"

There was something about that very question that made his stomach churn, and yet, there was no way to avoid an answer. In fact, his silence, combined with his shaking legs and sweaty palms pretty much confirmed everything. (Goddamnit Deakins).

"Robert?"

He nodded, and coughed suddenly as he nearly choked on his own saliva.

"I'm going to bring you some water," Skoda sat up and left the room momentarily, and when Skoda did leave the room, it took every ounce of self-control to remain seated. (To not run out and leave, to not steal a peak at the notepad that was lying in Skoda's now empty chair.)

Needless to say, the water Skoda brought was soothing.

"So, you feel that your older brother is favored."

He nodded, staring at the floor, intently studying his black shoes.

"Let's skip a few of these questions, shall we?" Skoda promptly scribbled a few additional notes before he trained his eyes back on Goren, "What is it that you fear? Or rather, what is it that you fear the most?"

"Right now?"

"Sure."

"I'm afraid of losing everything."

"Loss of control perhaps?"

"No," he answered surely, "I'm afraid of losing my job."

"It's what you love to do?"

"It's what I'm good at doing," he stated simply, "and everything I love is part of my job."

"So you couldn't, in a hypothetical situation of course, learn to love another job that you were also good at?"

He shook his head, "this is the first time I've been really good at something, and uh, most importantly, someone uh, knows it and uh, understands it, uh, understands me."

"It's about connection then," Skoda spoke slowly, "it's about being understood."

"No, uh, I mean, maybe," he puzzled, "yeah, I mean, she understands me."

"She?"

"My partner, uh, my old partner," he sighed, "Eames."

Skoda stopped for a moment, pausing an unusual amount of time, and it wasn't hard to see the cogs turning, "Robert, what is your attitude toward the opposite sex? Starting perhaps with your childhood perspective and moving on towards your current feelings towards the opposite sex."

"Women are uh, fine, uh, good. I like women, if that is what you mean. I have relationships with women."

"Well, I wasn't asking you about sexual preference _per se_, . . ."

"Well, I've kept my relationship with my mother. I've always loved and respected my mother. I still do, I understand that this, uh, disease, it uh, well, she did the best she could."

"As opposed to your father who left you."

He nodded.

"Don't worry detective," Skoda smiled, "I've only a few more initial questions for you. Okay, do you feel that you are able to sleep?"

"I sleep."

"Okay, but do you have trouble falling asleep? Is it difficult to get back to sleep when you do wake up?"

"Yes and yes."

"How much sleep would you say you get at night?"

"At least five hours."

This response seemed to drive Skoda into writing a mini-novel on that pad of paper.

"And dreams, what do you dream about?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, for example, do you dream about falling or flying? Do you have reoccurring dreams?"

"Sometimes reoccurring . . . uh, like the one when I'm on the subway, but I keep missing my connection, or I get lost, or I don't have the right fare," but he had to stop because he just couldn't play this game anymore, "Uh, honestly, is this question really relevant doctor? Because what I want most is for you to tell my captain that I can come back to work."

"I mentioned connection before in our conversation. A connection Robert, you know, like the one you have with your partner, detective Eames," Skoda took a deep breath, "and that would perhaps correlate with your 'subway' dreams which also indicate a theme of connection. For example, you expressed a fear of getting off track - which could indicate that you are experiencing some anxiety about losing an important connection – or that you don't have the right fare, which indicates that you may be feeling some insecurity, especially so when it comes to feeling that 'you actually have what it takes to earn that connection.'"

"I'd like to talk to you one more time, minimally, before I can clear you to come off of your captain's probation. And then I'd like to find out about how you feel about medication which I feel might be . . ."

"No, no, no . . ."

"Robert, please, I'm not finished. This doesn't mean that you can't go back to work tomorrow. It means that I want to see you again, and if you comply with at least one more meeting, I will recommend to your captain that he should consider taking you off of this minimally intrusive probationary period."

He nodded superficially, (Anything to get the fuck outta here.)

"So, what does your schedule look like in the next few days?"

"I'll set something up through the captain," he replied carefully, "Dr. Skoda," he nodded as he stood up to leave the room, never to look back unless his job was threatened.

As he walked towards the subway, the March daylight fading behind the rows of office buildings, he turned on his cell phone. It beeped, buzzed and whirred. She'd called. Eames. He wanted to see her. He needed to see her. He needed his connection.

TBC


	18. A queen from Queens

_Chapter Eighteen_

The wind had picked up with a fierce chill. The rush of cold air took him back to some random comment Bishop had mentioned earlier in the day, way earlier, as in before he slammed the white board into the opposing wall: 'March was going out like a lion.' Then, his senses shifted again as a waft of cheap Chinese takeout infiltrated his nose and quite suddenly, he realized that he'd neglected to eat dinner and that he was starving. But there were more pressing activities to address, so after leaving Skoda's office, his brain went on remote, and before he could even think to process his current reality, he was sitting on the number 2 line on his way back to his apartment.

Unconsciously, he passed his stop, only to find himself still working his way to the connection he truly needed. As if on automatic, he got off on the stop he needed to transfer to the very bus line that would take him to Queens. Who lived in Queens? He laughed aloud when he thought about it. Yes, he needed to see _his queen_.

It was dead cold and dark when he reached her apartment. The wind off the water was harrowing, and he found himself doing a little dance outside of her stoop to stay warm. He'd called, (but the call went straight to voice mail), so he waited as if on an unofficial stakeout. It would be a lie to say that he hadn't found himself in this very place before, slightly obscured from the street view, hovering near her kitchen window, it was the best place to watch.

That's when she came into view; she was on her cell - which made perfect sense for it explained why his call went straight to her voicemail. He watched her pace back and forth and in and out of his viewing rectangle. She was clearly put out. He could tell this in the way that she carried her shoulders, by the way her hair obscured most of her face, but what was most revealing of her current mood, was the periodic view of a most telling frown. He could also see that she was mostly listening in this particular conversation, when she did speak, it was only in short bursts. This was a serious phone chat, and not to be paranoid or anything, but he wondered if it was about him.

He thought about a warm shower, he thought about stealing a smoke, (a habit he'd kicked years ago,) or maybe a touch of booze – anything to take the edge off. But most importantly, he knew what he wanted, (and what he wanted had very little to do with conversation).

Suddenly, his phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. It was Eames.

"Goren," he answered.

"Sorry, I was on the other line."

"I know."

"But . . ."

"I'm outside, uh, can I come in?"

Within seconds, her door swung open and he closed his cell simultaneously.

"Get in, it's freezing."

"I know," he answered quietly, wondering how he'd manage to come this far on remote control, and more importantly, how he was going to come off of remote. But maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't care.

"I just got off the phone with Regina," she lifted an eyebrow, studying him carefully, "She told me there was a little action on the eleventh floor today, so what's going . . ."

He refused to let her finish the sentence, instead his instincts took over, (and for once he had no fear).

"Goren," she protested, but he brought his left pointer finger to her lips, shushing her gently.

"No talking, please," he suggested, and he really meant it. He didn't want to talk, he wanted to close off the rest of the world and take her with him. He wanted his connection, and right now the only kind of connection he could think of had to do with sex. This intense craving would have scared the shit out of him if he wasn't on remote, a slave to his animal brain, (that same area that was born of primal instinct), the one that said fight, flight, food or fuck – and right now he needed the fuck first, then maybe food.

More importantly, he didn't want input; but there was a look in her eye – the confused Eames' look that was tearing at him. (No Eames I'm not using my cerebrum any more today. Don't make me use it, I'm broken down.)

He continued to pull her with him into her bedroom, she wasn't resisting exactly, but she wasn't following him either.

"I think we need to talk," she informed him crossly as he pushed her onto her bed.

He shook his head in the dark of her room, (as if she could see), and continued to prepare her for his needs.

"Robert," she barked. But he already had pulled her sweat pants down her legs, along with her underwear or anything else that would be in the way of his most primal intention. He'd even flipped her on her side, her favorite position thus far in her condition – so why was she protesting?

"I'm not a goddamned toy," she sat up sharply, "What is going on with you? I've never seen you like this."

When he slipped out of his pants and pulled her in closer to him on the side of the bed where he was standing she took another verbal swipe at him, "Robert Goren, you've got lots of explaining to do."

"No,' he stated simply, "No explaining. I want you to be my girlfriend right now."

"Excuse me?"

"Isn't this what men and women do?"

"You threw a whiteboard into the wall today."

"I know," his voice was shaking with impatience, "and I don't want to talk about it."

"So this," Eames was really trying to appear calm and in control, but at this point he could hear her anger bubbling under the surface, "this is about you needing sex?"

She was drawing him away from his need to get what he wanted. She was actually making him use parts of his brain that he didn't want to use right now. This angered him immensely.

"Dr. Skoda said it was about connection," he muttered with some irritation.

"Dr. Skoda?" she looked even more confused, and he could almost hear her brain computing, but only if he'd been a little less focused on other concerns.

He'd now done the bare minimum in terms of undress and was ready to go. She jumped slightly at his touch, and even more so when he attempted to enter her.

"So this is your idea of foreplay?" her objection was clear.

"Hold still," he was bordering on exasperation, "you are making this challenging, you know?"

"You are standing, while I'm laying down," she noted sharply, "we are clearly not on the same plane today."

"Eames!" he couldn't hide his emotion now, she was starting to break down his original focus.

"So you are just using me for sex?"

"Isn't that why you've been sleeping with me in the first place?"

"What?" she swung her legs around, her eyes glaring (and he could see them plain as day now, as his eyes were adjusting to the dark).

"You, uh, when we first," the insecurities started flooding in, "when we, the night we were stuck in the elevator."

She decidedly wasn't helping him as she sat there staring at him, her eyes and facial expressions tightly masked. He began to understand what many of the suspects were feeling in the interrogation room. Eames was tough, and her bad cop, if you weren't playing alongside her, was quite scary.

He sighed aloud, "the night we first slept together you said that this might be a biological thing, that you needed me during your pregnancy, uh, in a way that, well uh, uh…"

"You think that this is only about hormones?"

"I, uh, I don't know, but, I hope, I hope not," and he was so flustered now that he could barely spit it out, "I want it, uh, I like that we have, I … will we still be more than partners after the baby is born?"

Her expression altered immediately, and she was kneeling on the bed now, looking a touch upset, a touch disoriented as she felt around for her clothes. He leaned over and handed back her sweat pants and underwear.

Finally, he leaned down and pulled up his pants, and was in the process of buckling up when he felt her behind him, her head leaning into his back. When he was done gathering himself, she guided him back out to her living area and they sat down on the couch.

"I should go," he said softly. Internally he was a ball of tension, his gut ached, his chest tight and his testicles felt like lead – most immediately however, he felt a wave of self loathing emanated from his core. He knew damn well that if he'd gone ahead and slept with Eames in the way that he intended in the first place, he'd be feeling like shit about right now too. Especially upon reflection, as he processed that she wasn't even into having sex, (he'd never even asked her), he'd just as well forced himself upon her. He was emotionally confused, deeply penitent and feeling guilty as hell.

So with that, he stood up, kissed her forehead and whispered, "I'm sorry."

"Don't," she held tightly onto the fabric of his pants.

"No, no, no," he shook his head strongly, "I've been . . ."

"Bobby," she stood up now, and pulled him into the couch, narrowly avoiding him falling on her as he was clearly off balance, "this has more to do with me than you know."

"C'mon," she pleaded, "don't go back to that place," and her right hand guided his face towards her, "It's okay. Stop thinking about what just happened and lets move on."

"I should have said this to you on that first night," she spoke slowly, "on that first night when I . . . I was the one to pull you into this, into this relationship, remember? Please don't forget that I initiated this, it was my choice. And yes, you accepted, but I should have made things, um I don't know, more apparent?"

He blinked back the moisture building in his eyes, his nose flaring against his will.

"I've had feelings for you . . . for a bit," she whispered, "I wasn't sure about them, I guess, I couldn't trust myself. You see, after Joe, I promised myself I wouldn't be with another cop. I guess I also promised myself that I wouldn't fall in love like this again. I . . . didn't know it was possible, and um, you see, I've been selfishly trying to protect myself," he nearly jumped as she took his hand and guided it into the center of her chest, "trying to protect this."

"I'm so afraid Bobby. I'm so afraid of this."

He looked down, trying to hide the errant tear that escaped his eye, now trailing slowly down the side of his left cheek. If he wasn't careful, he'd start shaking and then he'd crush her beneath him and the tears wouldn't stop.

"I've been trying so hard not to fall in love with you," she tried looked away from him too, and he could see from the corner of his eye that tears were streaming down her face, silently, "because that's not my first job. I feel compelled . . ." and her voice broke down and she had to wait a few seconds to find it again, "I feel compelled to protect you, even if that means from myself."

He hadn't expected that, and he sat erect, for the second time today he felt the strength to look her in the eyes, "protect me, Eames?"

"My job is to our partnership first," she said her voice returned to the Eames he knew from work, "I'm the senior partner, remember? Now this, this relationship has been detracting from your ability to work, and don't think that I don't know how much this job means to you. And believe me, . . ."

"You're the only one who's ever understood me," he interrupted quietly, "I'll never find anyone like you again."

"No Bobby," she smiled for the first time all night, "I don't think you understand, you're the one that's one of a kind. There is no one like you. There are millions of little worker bees like me running around, and then there's you."

"Eame . . . uh, Alex," the conversation was becoming so emotionally intense for him that it was actually starting to cause him physical discomfort, "please can we go to the bedroom?"

She nodded, "no more words," she promised.

With that said, he took her hand as she lead him to her room. Once again, never to look back.

* * *

When sleep finally came, he found himself underground, waiting on the platform. He'd been here many times before, but all of a sudden he was having a difficult time remembering where he was supposed to go. He hopped onto the next train, and considered himself lucky to find a seat. He searched the inside walls of the train, yet was unable to determine which line he was on. Their was a strange lack of signage, including the surreal fact that there appeared to be no communication system of any kind. A young African-American girl to his right was reading, _To Kill a Mockingbird. _She smelled of fresh flowers, and had extraordinary long eyelashes.

"Uh, excuse me."

She looked up at him surprised, and he found himself staring into her stunning dark brown eyes, "yes?"

"What line is this? I, uh, understand this must seem like a crazy question," he laughed nervously, but covered it with a killer smile, "do you think I'm crazy?"

"That's hard to say," she set her book down on her lap, "but this line is outbound from the city – the final destination is Harlem."

"Oh no," he muttered, "I'm going the wrong way."

"Where are you headed?"

"Queens I think," he smiled again, "I guess I'll get off at the next stop and double back."

"You'll hafta take the bus at some point," she added, "The 37 I think."

"Thank you, sweetheart."

"You got that look in your eye, mister. The one my girlfriend told me about . . . you're in love, aren't you?"

"To a beautiful queen."

"Now I'm starting to think that you might be crazy," the girl laughed exposing perfect teeth and a set of deep-set dimples, "A real queen? That is crazy talk."

"No, she's really a queen. A queen from Queens, the sweetest, best woman in the world."

"And why is she the best?"

"That's a little secret," his eyes narrowing, "but let me tell you about the one thing that I've finally come to understand."

"What's that?"

"You must promise not to share this with just anyone," he waggled his left pointer finger, "so young lady, my queen is the best because we share a connection," he winked as he said it, "if you find a person in your life who shares this kind of connection with you, you must not take it lightly. Don't let go of it easily – you may never find it again."

"What kind of connection?" the girl asked urgently as she could see the next stop was approaching.

"You'll know," he said unable to conceal a huge infectious smile that was taking over his face, and then after he stood up, he paused before leaning back down to whispered in her ear, "she loves me. Did you know that? She loves me."

And with that, he hopped off at the next stop - determined not to miss his connection back to Queens.

A.N. Thank you to all who've been sitting through this brainstorm. There is still more to come . . .


	19. Three simple words

_Chapter Nineteen_

_(L'essential est invisible pour les yeux.)_

He'd been granted a pass back to work, but only under the condition that he continue to visit Dr. Skoda.

While this inconvenience angered him beyond belief, he was so relieved to be back at his desk that he was letting it slide for now. And it was quite possible that he was able to let it slide because: Eames loved him.

As of late, that small revelation was helping him get out of bed in the morning. It was the ultimate cure-all.

"_I've had feelings for you now . . . for a bit,"_ and _"I've been trying so hard not to fall in love with you,"_ or _"I feel compelled to protect you…"_ The words repeated in his head like an essential mantra.

So when his mother rattled him on the phone, he'd calmly hang up and remember that _Eames loved him_. When Deakins told him that he had to continue to see Skoda during his probationary period, it didn't matter because _Eames loved him_. When that fucking smooth 'buck' in the interrogation room called him a "dumb, mother-fuckin' wop with a tie" he just blew that shit off. I mean, Eames loved his ass, so what else could possibly matter? The office, (this sacred place), _this_ was where he belonged and fuck everybody else. There was work, and there was Eames, and for this small moment in time he had them both.

With that said, he secretly loved getting there before everyone else arrived; the quietude was lovely, with only the fax machine and a random phone to hinder his thoughts now and again, a mechanical whir in the distance.

Today, he started the day fresh and new; the Eames mantra stuck in his head, and his senses were full of her. He'd refused to shower on this 'morning after' so her smell would cling to him for the rest of the day. His hands and fingers were still a great source of maximum olfactory pleasure; saliva and assorted bodily fluids mixed together that had then dried all over his body.

When his 'queen' arrived, she'd be welcomed by a mug, a decaffeinated tea bag, and a croissant laid out lovingly on her desk.

The pregnancy had transformed Eames' taste buds, ruled her cravings and kept him constantly on his toes. First it was the Danish, then the apple ones made her sick – so they switched flavors, but then she wanted dried fruit, (It made sense he mused, she needed more iron, or that's what the 'Expectant Father' reference book informed him).

Eames was changing every day – and it wasn't just her preference for food, sometimes she craved lots of sex, more than he was in shape for, (and in the beginning that was exciting and fun). Soon after, it was just oral sex, followed by periods of no sex – just cuddling, but as soon as he'd settle into a routine, she'd just change it up again.

In contrast, there was a scone on Bishops' desk, and a sticky note that promised her he'd bring her the beverage of her choice when she arrived. It was no secret that he needed to make it up to Bishop after his behavior in the conference room. Pleasing two women? Listen up guys, it's not worth it, it was just too fucking exhausting.

The other item that was exhausting was his caseload. He missed a partial day at work and it now felt like he'd missed a week. Another murder was hatched on his plate and before he knew it, he was beginning to walk around like a zombie. It was a damn good thing that he didn't need sleep.

One day, as he was busy listening to a recorded 9-1-1 call, he became lost in his work, and simultaneously irritated as Eames voice distracted him in the background. Slamming his hand flat on the desk, he saw Bishop flinch, but not his Eames. Eames' eyes were smiling, for the simple fact that she just understood. He heard her playfully chide him, her eyes never left his as she asked Bishop, "Do you want me to stick a dart in him?"

Only Eames could get away with saying something so crude and not incur his wrath. He watched her mischievous stare; the love on her face was unmistakable. And it took every ounce of his being to remain deadpan.

So as he and Bishop left 1PP to investigate and off-site lead, the last expression on Eames' face remained burned into his memory. Two things struck him: the first was that he was now able to place her expressions into some meaningful categories. Now that he knew of her professed love, he could identify when she was reflecting her true feelings for him. He'd seen this very same expression from her in the past, and yet he'd never had the context to place it . . .

Second, he was beginning to note recent physical transformations to her visage. The changes had happened so gradually over the past few months, that before today, he hadn't noticed how a mole had made itself more visible on her forehead, or how her nose – her adorable little nose was a bit wider? Her chin and cheekbones were previously so sharp and defined, but now as if someone had used a graphic blurring tool in a subtle way, he could see how the edges were softened ever so slightly. Her hair appeared to fall away from her face more, acting as hair does in more humid climates. His own hair would curl tightly or behave in unpredictable ways under the same conditions. But this was the end of March, and the humidity wasn't off the charts . . .

And things were going fine, the mantra was working wonders until . . .

. . . until Eames' last day. Now there was the reality of it all, now it was official – Eames would not be returning to the office until the baby was born. It was her empty chair, (the one he refused to let anyone but Eames sit in). It was the untouched stack of files on her desk, they glared right back at him, mocking him as if to say: 'we will sit here untouched and help make your life a living hell.' It was the promise to have more meetings with Skoda, and the unappreciative way Bishop picked at her scone. It was the million little things that sat in the shadow of the really big fucking thing that was missing from the eleventh floor.

Weeks after her last official day, he'd find himself sleeping at her house to make up for her lost presence at the workplace. While desperate for some normalcy, he'd gently try to make her stay up longer with him, and brought work home at every opportunity. It was the relationship that they both knew best, so they continued their dysfunctional role-play in her house when clearly they should have both been sleeping.

"I'm so tired," she yawned.

"Yeah, I should just, uh . . ."

"No, no, no, Robert Goren!"

"Huh?"

"Don't you dare hang any of those autopsy photos on my wall," Eames threatened (and she was suddenly very awake), "I don't care what you do at your house, or at the office, but you _will _not do that here."

He grinned while sheepishly pulling the pushpin and photo off her wall, "you mean these, uh, are a bit of a turnoff?"

He almost got out of the way in time as a manila folder beamed him on his lower back.

They were both laughing as they picked up the multiple documents that splayed cross her bedroom floor. That's when it happened. It came out before he could run it through a filter, "I love you, Alex," he said, as he reached out to touch and play with her hair.

Suddenly, silence. Her laughter gone as her fingers busily compiled the last of the loose papers.

"I, uh . . .'' he cleared his throat unsure of what to say, "I …" (but for some fucking reason he couldn't repeat it – not when he was now fully aware and in control of what was coming out of his mouth), "It's late," and he looked at his cell as if that made what he was doing look more authentic, "and I should, uh, I've got an early start tomorrow and I should go."

"Okay," she replied, the confusion in her face was going to cause him to stay up all night, but he fled nonetheless into a starless city night. He fled all the way back to Brooklyn.

TBC

A.N. To all the little Eames' around who continue to be my bouncing board. There are a few of you out there who continue to keep me inspired to write down this _. (And you know who you are . . . so thank you.)


	20. Eames is many things

_Chapter Twenty_

* * *

**Office of Dr. Emil Skoda **

**88 Chambers Street**

"Hi Robert"

He nodded at Dr. Skoda, who entered the room with a venti latte in hand. Goren inhaled as inconspicuously as possible, and narrowed it down to being one of two varieties of caffee mocha, but whether it was chocolate or white chocolate mocha was harder to differentiate.

Skoda smiled broadly, and sat down across from him, picking up what appeared to be the white legal notepad from their previous meeting.

"Robert," Skoda probed, "I know that it's been several weeks, you have an incredibly busy schedule, but with that, I'm glad to see that you've placed enough trust in me to come back."

He bit the inside of his cheek to not laugh aloud at that, the choice to see Skoda was not really an act of volition.

"The, uh, caffee mocha, uh, high fructose corn syrup," he noted pointing absently to Dr. Skoda's beverage, "Mayo clinic studies have suggested a high correlation to Type 2 diabetes and high blood pressure."

"And don't forget obesity," Skoda added, seemingly unaffected by Goren's attempt to create what on the surface appeared to be an innocent sidetrack.

"Exactly," he paused, "obesity."

"So Robert," Skoda dove right it, "In the last session, we closed out our conversation in regards to relationships, connections and dreams. But before I get too carried away, how have things changed, improved, or gotten worse over the past week?"

"They've improved."

"Well that's great," Skoda scribbled busily, "why do you think that your situation has improved?"

And, how was he to go about explaining what Eames' recent clarifications about their relationship had meant to him? There had been a marked improvement in his sense of security. This sense of security increased his happiness, his ability to focus on work, and helped assuage his fears of what would happen to their partnership in the future.

"As I recall you told me that the main source of your frustration had to do with the fact that you'd been temporarily assigned a new partner,' Skoda looked up from his pad as he pressed this question, "and you say the situation improved . . . so what's different?"

"I've been able to touch basis with Eames," he related, "and I've apologized to Bishop, and uh, things are better."

"You said you touched basis with detective Eames?" Skoda spoke slowly as he flipped through his notepad, "You mentioned in our last session that detective Eames, and yourself, share a good connection. You inferred that she understands you . . . so what was it you talked about? Was it in regards to the situation with Bishop?"

Goren looked out the window of Skoda's office, "Um, I uh, . . . I don't know what you wrote down last session, but I don't feel comfortable bringing Eames into this, uh, into this dialogue."

"You know, some of my clients keep telling me I should be using one of those new-fangled devices," Skoda laughed, "one of those BlackBerry PDAs or a laptop, and then I'd have this stuff at my fingertips . . . but then I tell them, I would have to relay the information from one source to another and when you do that, you understand that there is a risk of degradation when one transfers information. And so I have here," Goren frowned as Skoda held up the notepad, "that you identified Eames, namely, your partner, as the one with whom you share a connection. You said that she understands you."

With that said, Goren's near photographic memory flooded his neurons:

"_This is the first time I've been really good at something, and uh, most importantly, someone uh, knows it and uh, understands it, uh, understands me."_

"_It's about connection then," Skoda spoke slowly, "it's about being understood."_

"_No, uh, I mean, maybe," he puzzled, "yeah, she understands me."_

"_She?"_

"_My partner, uh, my old partner," he sighed, "Eames."_

"You must understand, Robert," Skoda calmly toned, "that Eames appears to be intrinsically linked to the situation that brought you to my office. Therefore I don't know how much progress we can make without her being part of our conversation. With that said, however, I can respect your wanting to protect her autonomy. I can only reiterate that you are not the only NYPD detective to sit in that chair, and you are not the only one to want to protect his partner."

So it had all come down to this. This is what he'd been hoping to avoid, and yet he'd hit a point where he knew he couldn't fool Skoda without there being repercussions. So, should he go quick and painless or . . .

"So let's talk about your relationship with your partner," Skoda initiated, "how did you gain each other's trust or rather, how did you come to understand each other in what appears a relatively short time period?"

"I, uh," Goren found himself unable to focus as he was trying so hard to contain the situation, "I don't know, Eames . . . Eames just lets me do my job, she, she appreciates my skills and she, well she . . . I guess you could say she brings out the best in me."

"Many partners don't function at your level in terms of 'a kind of mutualism,'" Skoda pressed, "but the way you described your relationship, at least on its surface, the two actions that she brings to the table seem to indicate that she has a very 'hands off' approach, but on the other hand, it indicates, that she adds very little to the mix."

"No," Goren shook his head intensely, "that's not true. Eames is many things, she is most of the, uh . . . our success as a team, rides completely on her shoulders."

"Well," Skoda cocked an eyebrow, "then I can see how this change in partnership has really thrown you for a loop. Since detective Eames' change in duty load, have you continued to keep her in the loop or do you touch basis with her often?"

"Yes."

"Then besides a few obvious changes to your work schedule, and since you are still communicating on a regular basis with your partner, what do you think has been the greatest source of frustration thus far?"

"I can't say," Goren answered firmly, "and I don't know, and uh . . ."

Skoda's sigh broke through Goren's ability to finish his sentence. "just so you know, I ask this next question to all detectives regardless of the partnership being that of a same sex or opposite sex pairing."

Goren felt time stop. He licked his lips and felt an awful anxiety building up from within. Suddenly it was becoming difficult to breath and he felt the stirrings of a panic attack, when he breathed out he was shaking, physically shaking, such that he knew that Skoda would have to be a blooming idiot not to pick up on it.

Slowly, time started ticking again, but ever so painfully slow. He watched a myriad of emotions cross Skoda's face: concern, confusion, comprehension and finally a touch of empathy (or was it pity)? Skoda's pen began flying across the pad, a flurry of motions which without warning, abruptly stopped.

"When did the relationship become more than just . . . . partners?"

"After she told me."

"After she told you what?"

"That she was, uh, pregnant."

"So," Skoda looked genuinely surprised, "you've only been seeing each other since, um, I'm sorry, how far along is she?"

"She's due mid-August I believe."

"And that is what, four months away?"

He nodded adding, "her last day on the job was this Friday."

"That's premature!" Skoda noted, "she has a condition . . . or is she taking time off?"

"Well, uh, she's a higher risk pregnancy because of her age, but," he swallowed, "it has more to do that she started to show signs of preeclampsia. While her doctor described the situation as mild, uh, she was informed that she shouldn't take any chances."

"Wow," Skoda nodded, "and it makes sense, she's right around the twenty week mark?"

"Yeah," he answered scratching the back of his head, "I, uh, . . ."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that detective," Skoda relayed, "fortunately there is medication which can . . ."

"She's taking it."

"When did you find out?"

"Friday."

Skoda sighed again before making direct eye contact, "Well, this explains many things. This is very complex Robert. I'm sure that you can see that?"

Goren nodded his head as there was nothing left to say.

"Look," Skoda frowned, "I'm sure you understand that the NYPD looks down upon, um, these kinds of relationships. But hey," Skoda shrugged, "it's not my job to judge. I'm here to help you work through issues that affect your ability to work."

"With that said, it's my job to be completely honest with you," Skoda set the pen and pad on the adjoining table and leaned forward, "from what I can see, your relationship with detective Eames _is_ affecting your ability to work."

Goren could feel the blood slowly draining from his face, Skoda's words meant another sleepless night, another non-productive day, more alcoholic beverages and the undying need to see her, to find her and try to curl up into the one thing that brought him a sense of relief. A true paradox really – the thing that was now keeping him alive was the same thing that was eroding his ability to work. His life was inextricably linked to both work and Eames. At one time, those two beautiful items came in one package, and now they were painfully separate.

"We need to have time to address these issues in more detail for me to be able to sort out all of the dynamics at play," Skoda cocked his head to the side, "and I know that this type of introspection is going to be particularly challenging for a man of your emotional intelligence . . . . so, please, please, please come back and see me on your own volition. I obviously can't force you to do so, but I do feel that working through this complexity will ensure your success at work – and I _know_ that is important to you."

"So, detective, you are officially off of probation, but I'm making a recommendation in my notes that you come back and see me in two weeks, minimum."

Goren left without a word, buttoning his suit jacket and pulling his shades from his right side coat pocket as he took to the stairwell (anything but the elevator). Shades on as he walked directly west into the setting sun, he looked at the messages he received on his cell. Two from Bishop, one from Eames – and the winner was a trip to Central Park, (body in Central Park West – two days worth of decomp.), followed by another visit to the office of the Medical Examiner. Eames would be with family tonight, ever since her diagnosis, she'd been swept away, and understandably so, but nonetheless he felt very much disconnected from his queen.

Unable to support Eames anymore than what her family could provide, he decided to entrench himself at work. Walking to the subway, he slipped away underground amongst a throng of fellow New Yorkers, each trying desperately to make their connections.

TBC

AN: Another rough chapter for Goren…it will get better, I think(?)

Thank you to all the stalwart reviewers who continue to prod me through this piece. Help on timelines, consistency issues, deep introspection, and thoughtful evaluation . . . it's all been invaluable. So, thanks!


	21. A simple biological feat

_Chapter Twenty-one_

* * *

When Goren left work to see _her_, it was as if he had entered an entirely different plane of existence. In what had turned out to be a strange turn of events, life with Eames now consisted of a realm free of viscous perps, professional liars and assholes. A realm that was free of dead bodies, a place where Goren could be rid of the infernal chemicals used at the morgue to block out the harsh stench of carbon decay. The chemicals must have adhered to Rogers permanently he mused, noting that after visits to the morgue, the overpowering miasma would cling to his clothes for hours.

Eames was in the shower. She seemed to like warm showers these days. He'd brought over the food, 'porkchops,' she'd demanded. 'That's the second time this week,' he'd replied, smiling on the other end of his cell, 'porkchops it is.'

Presently, he filled another basket full of laundry and headed to the basement to finish her final load of whites. She'd given him a brief lecture on the do's and don'ts of her laundry. He prided himself on the fact that he was good at paying close attention to detail, that and that folding laundry was one of his favorite chores.

And Eames? She was getting farther along, soon to be into her third and final trimester. He knew every detail about her pregnancy, as he was literally counting the days until things returned to normal. And so what if it was all born out of selfish intentions? He wanted his Eames back.

Physically, she was showing, (showing more every day). At her request, he'd feel her belly; she'd laugh and ask him if he could feel movement. He tried, but it was so subtle that it didn't really come together for him. What did come together was the fact that their sexual routines had changed yet again. The sexual positions that were comfortable for both of them were becoming few and far between. He could no longer take her on her back for obvious reasons, and while missionary wasn't always his favorite position, it still ranked high on his list, and the thought of it being no longer available to him, made him look forward to the day he could flop her on her backside, a pillow strategically placed under the small of her back. Sometimes sex was out of the question, so he'd lay there in a very lustful state, hoping she'd fall asleep quickly so he could relieve himself. This was generally a difficult and messy procedure. Women were so lucky . . . when all was said and done; they didn't have to deal with the awful, sticky mess.

After her warm shower, she sidled up to him and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, "thank you for doing my laundry."

It warmed his heart to see her this happy, so playful, and so full of all the things that he was missing desperately at work. He missed her wit, her resourcefulness, her ability to read his mind and the one thing that was always overlooked about Eames: she was a damned good detective.

"Why are you so happy?" he asked, a mischievous grin playing on his face.

"It's nice to spend time with my man," she grinned, her eyes twinkling, "I'm full of porkchops, my laundry is done, and I get to spend the evening pressing up against you."

"Did you know that I can do delivery as well?" his ears unable to hide a crimson blush.

He watched as her eyebrows peaked in curiosity. Eames was so incredibly sexy that he began to feel a growing tightness in his pants.

She burst into peals of laughter as he wrapped her up in his arms, carrying her directly to the bedroom, nothing but a bath towel was between him and her soft skin.

With that, he laid her gently on her bed, climbing aboard to begin unwrapping her. Need he note the other wonderful detail about her changing landscape? Over the past month, her breasts had continued to increase in size. The area surrounding her nipples, were a deep magenta. The circumference of each nipple had doubled in girth, which in turn gave great satisfaction to his oral proclivities. And yes, lately he'd spent many hours pouring over breasts, paying an inordinate amount of attention to them. Eames didn't seem to mind. She noted that it made her entire abdomen twitch involuntarily, in a good way.

Tonight was no exception to the type of foreplay they dabbled in, "Aren't you going to get comfortable?"

"I am comfortable," he smiled, focusing intently on her right breast.

"I mean, you're still fully clothed."

"Not for long," he noted, still obsessing as he began working his mouth around her breasts.

Suddenly, something was immediately out of order, or foreign . . .

"What's wrong?" she toned, her eyes doubling in size.

It took him nearly five seconds to process everything and then find the words to speak aloud, "Eames, you uh, you," he started, "I uh, I think you are making well, uh, not milk per say. Pre-milk? Oh, uh, colostrum?"

She looked as shocked as he did, and she instantly fingered her right nipple, squeezed it and sure enough, a slightly white, clear liquid bead formed under the pressure.

Like two rookies, they lay side by side, completely entranced by this simple biological feat, while simultaneously not knowing what to do next. He'd never tasted breast milk before, literally, like many babies born in the sixties, he was just another one of those formula babies.

"Wow, this is, um. This is crazy." Eames voice finally cut the silence, "what does it taste like?"

He shook his head, unable to actually qualify an answer, "I was too surprised to process taste."

Without warning she leaned forward, gesturing for him to give it another try. What was he to do? So, he licked tentatively, but found very little liquid, not but a drop to process.

"Try," Eames encouraged softly, "try getting some out, it's okay, it doesn't hurt."

Like any good junior partner, he made the effort. Another small droplet size played on the surface of his tongue.

"Look," Eames shouted suddenly, "the other one is producing too!"

Eames lay back down and he moved back and forth dutifully cleaning up the droplets that formed from both breasts. And it was beyond surreal really, a very sweet flavor, almost comparable to a sugar-water, with a hint of cinnamon. But no, there was nothing really that could compare to this. He lay there, half-aroused, gently lapping at his senior partners chest, (if only the guys at the office could see me now), and even Eames seemed rather taken in by all of this. There was a kind of intimacy in this simple act, the most obvious reason being that it was something new for both of them, akin to losing one's virginity in a strange way. And for him, the act in itself was simply mesmerizing.

And as intimate as the moment passed, Goren felt slightly abashed, self-conscious really about suckling on her like an infant. He felt his face flush, and quickly removed himself from her chest to read her reaction. What he received for his efforts was a warm smile back, a full maternal glow, as she cradled his head and massaged his jaw-line.

Meanwhile, he was growing more and more aroused, heat was emanating from his lower half, and he found himself involuntarily nudging his hips in her direction as he returned to her chest.

Finally, when the arousal became to much, he pulled away and she ran her finger over his damp lips.

In response, he then took her in closer and shared a long sweet, kiss. Lips lingering, tongues exploring each other tentatively.

"It tastes sweet," Eames murmured, "or maybe that's just because it's off your lips."

He felt it necessary to punish her for saying something so endearing, so he flipped her on to her side, (a touch roughly perhaps), and pressed against her, just in case she was uncertain of where he was arousal-wise.

"Can you do that again?" Eames muttered, "same area."

He was more than happy to comply, for while she'd found a sense of pleasure from feeling the tented fabric of his pants between her legs, it felt pretty good from his standpoint too.

"Oh shoot," Eames huffed, "my breasts are still leaking."

Reaching over her, he felt the tip of her damp nipple with his left hand. Eames was already busy pulling her bath towel under her as to prevent any additional leakage.

"Don't stop tweaking me there," Eames breathed heavily, "that feels nice."

So there he lay, spooning up against her tightly, (the fabric felt fantastic), while her left breast leaked slowly over his left fingertips. He knew Eames was close, her breath had quickened and she'd pushed aggressively into his hips. Without warning, she came rather violently, so he held onto her tightly.

"Oh," she groaned, and he held her even tighter, feeling her rhythmic aftershocks loop back and forth, "oh" she huffed again.

This was unusual.

"Eames?"

"I think," she breathed, "these are more like mini-contractions, wow," she exhaled loudly, "they are stronger than usual and they keep coming back."

Suddenly, he felt a hint of worry, which immediately he wanted to brush off, as he was equally aroused and just wanted to come. He knew if he kept running his erection against the fabric that was housed between her legs, he'd come in the next minute or so too.

"Are you okay?" he whispered, his body still going through the motions of needing to rub against her.

"Yeah, I think so, the contractions are really more like how I feel after an orgasm, but they keep coming back pretty consistently and every time you rub," Eames continued to try to catch her breath, "it feels like I can't stop."

He stopped immediately, "is that good or bad?"

"No, don't stop," Eames added softly.

His head twirled, was Eames having one of those elusive multiple orgasms? He'd tried and tried to make this happen for many of his ex-girlfriends. He'd read books, he studied pictures, he'd made them all his willing guinea pigs but he'd never succeeded, (and even now he was forced to recognize that this could very well be more of the bi-product of her condition as opposed to his actions. Oh if only he could make his brain shut-up).

But finally his body did the trick. It clicked off his brain for the next five to ten seconds as he came quicker than he expected, his hands had moved over to control her hip movement during his final thrusts, as he carefully controlled the friction that worked deliciously against him. She continued to awkwardly pulse in his arms as he held her tightly through his sexual peak. He muffled his cries, burying his head in the space between her and the mattress. Tears barely held at bay as he reeled from his orgasm. God, he loved what she did to him. She made him feel so good, and he trusted her so much. So much so, that the act of coming was often painful, as powerful emotions churned through his head immediately following orgasm. He bit down on his lip, his heart constricted, his breath hitched, and his body muscles continued to spasm involuntarily for several minutes.

For the first time in a long time, he felt as though this evening's experience could bridge him through this most problematic time, as these times spent with Eames were becoming so much more intense, and so much more intimate. At times, he wasn't even sure how to come down from their meetings.

Eames twitched abruptly in his arms and with that, he was broken from his train of thoughts.

"Are you still, uh, having the . . ."

"No, um well, it's subsided a bit," she turned to her left side and scooted upwards to face him. She smelled so good.

"I remember when I first thought I might be having feelings for you," Eames spoke softly as she reflected.

"Really?"

She nodded before adding, "Do you remember the DeSilva case?"

"No," his breath released rather heavily, "really?"

She nodded again.

"Eames," he grinned, "you and all the women in the world. It has to be biological. I mean, uh, for you to like it when I got all physical with Bernard."

"No," Eames met his eyes with a slight intensity, "no, it wasn't that you kicked his ass – which you did very effectively and humanely, by the way. But rather, it was how you treated DeSilva's mother."

His eyes widened and his mouth gaped slightly, he hadn't been expecting that to be the kicker.

"You were such a big softy," Eames laughed, "I really started to see the other side of you, the other side that I had a hunch was there, but I couldn't be certain. I mean, you were so cerebral, clever and manipulative when you needed to be, so for awhile I couldn't think of you in any other vein."

"So," he spoke just above a whisper (and yes, tentative as hell), "when did you fall in love with me?"

"Do you remember when you had that huge freak out in our favorite conference room?"

"Which one?" he frowned.

"Well, that's true," her smile widened, "you've had a few. But I'm talking about the one when you went off at Carver and Deakins in nearly the same breath."

"Tyrone Cliff's case," he shook his head as he spoke.

"Yup."

"That got ugly fast," he mused.

"Yup. But your passion for fairness, your ability to channel your emotions when you needed to . . . at the time I remember it was the first time that I really 'got' you," Eames shivered slighty, "and with that, I understood that I didn't really want to 'get' anybody else."

"So yeah, that's when I knew that I loved you," she looked down, her finger tracing a pattern on the sheets, "but I still hadn't figured out how I was going to allow myself to act on it, or if I really wanted to act on it for that matter. At the time, all I only knew that I didn't want to act on it. Um, because then I'd have broken all the rules I'd made for myself after Joe died. But I've thought about it for a while."

"A short while back" Eames paused, "when we were going over the Bradley case at my place, when um, you tried to hang up those photos, you know and we were picking up the um, - "

He swallowed and placed his hand on her cheek to gently quiet her, (he knew what she was referring to, and he didn't want her to have to spell it out). _I love you, Alex._

This was about the fact that he'd never brought it up since the words had flown out of his mouth, nor had she for that matter. And, why were those three words so goddamned hard to say?

"Eames, uh, Alex, I uh, no," his fingers began rubbing the side of his temple, the spot where a headache was threatening to take over, "it's ridiculous because I can't, uh, I can't place the moment when I, uh, you know, when I started thinking about you, uh, I-it's hard to uh, place, I, uh . . ."

She cocked her head to the side and smoothed the side of his whisker-ridden jaw, "did you mean it when you said it?"

Her eyes were the same eyes he'd fallen in love with, soft, brown, perfect. The creases in her forehead were only slightly turned downwards, while her nose, (also softer and rounder in her pregnant state), gently sloped upwards, her mouth a touch agape. He could have stared into her eyes forever, searching wildly for the right answer. There was a vulnerability in her face, her head still cocked to the side.

He didn't know what to say. This was his closest and best friend to date, and being that as it may, in his head and in his heart, he knew that he could only lay honesty before her. To give her anything less would be unconscionable.

But tonight as he looked into her pale brown eyes, he wanted to lie a little bit, anything to keep her in a serene state. After all, in her condition, Eames needed a stress-free environment. She needed someone that could be responsive to all her needs, at all times. For example, she needed someone who would put her needs above the rest, above work, above the fetus she was carrying. She needed someone who could say those three words to her – while understanding the implications of those three words. She needed someone who wasn't afraid of those three words.

And right now, Goren was terrified.


	22. The morning after

_Chapter Twenty-two_

It was the morning after. The morning after he didn't lie to her. The morning he gave it all up, gave up everything for the job, gave it up for what they'd shared before . . .

Eames seemed to take it better than he expected, as she'd held him gently, stroking the back of his head. And for the duration of the night, until the light crept into her room, he remained wide-awake, unable to sleep, dry eyes that burned in his sockets.

Then before he left her place for the station, he carefully placed a kiss on her forehead, she was sound asleep, an angel really . . . and it is not like he didn't know that he was a fucking idiot. But that was beside the point. Could the son of a lout, really amount to anything?

When he closed the door behind him, he felt part of his soul die. He turned on his cell phone, anything, anything to distract. He knew what would work; getting back on the job, the job would distract him. The job was his life, and he'd chosen it above her.

With his shades in place, he waited inside a bagel shop for the 37 line. Bishop had texted him about the latest on the Mora case. She'd meet him mid-town in about three hours so they could interview a close friend of the deceased. This meant that he could run home and change out of his clothes, catch a shower – anything that would erase all memories of how he'd handled last night.

Like a robot directed back to his original mission, he mindlessly boarded the line out of Queens, traced his way back to the subway on pure rote, and off to his apartment in Brooklyn. Halfway through his methodical method of shedding out of his clothes and separating them neatly into dry cleaning and laundry, he felt a shiver pass through him. It grounded him violently, reminding him that he was in fact human.

This was the point where he started crying, and moreover, he found that he couldn't stop. Time passed, his cell phone beeped, he crawled off the floor and managed to haul his shaky carcass into the shower. When his hands finally stopped shaking he attempted to shave, it all ended poorly, with crooked sideburns and half a tissue used for staunching his own blood.

But then something strange happened . . . . and it was gradual really, but for what it was worth, he noticed that which each physical step of remaking himself back into Detective Robert Goren, he found it a little easier to breath, a little less difficult to control his emotions. It started with the first piece of his 'detective costume,' his undershirt and dress shirt, followed by boxers, dress socks and suit pants.

By the time he straightened his tie, he felt nearly 95% back in control: a touch of hair gel to straighten his mop, brush and floss, the suit jacket (98%) and finally his dress shoes and a pair of shades (99.9%).

With that, he exhaled sharply, flipped open his cell and clumsily punched a few buttons.

"Bishop? . . . Yeah, Goren," his voice was impassive, "I'm on my way."

TBC


	23. Human empathy

_Chapter Twenty-three_

The apartment, ubiquitous to most Manhattan flats, was like a goddamned sardine can, and an expensive sardine can at that.

And like a sardine can, it had a rather foul odor, one that he immediately placed as a cat box. His ex had owned a few, and he'd never forgotten the smell. He glanced up quickly at his partner, who at this moment appeared completely unaffected, or unaware for that matter.

Aloof as usual, Bishop still hadn't mastered the ability to show any form of gratitude for the coffee he handed her when they met outside the midtown complex. Their entire conversation was extremely professional, and consisted of less than twenty words. He knew because he counted them.

"Are you ready to go up?" she asked, "I said we'd meet her in about fifteen minutes."

He nodded, "apartment 409?"

She nodded back and they silently approached the outside communication box.

It was after they were buzzed in that he found himself wedged into the tiny apartment, with Bishop, the late Annette Mora's best friend Clara Raja, and a brown tabby.

"Clara," he cleared his throat, "it had to be someone Annette knew well . . . uh, maybe someone from her work, or someone she was seeing?"

"Oh, no, no" Clara was fighting tears, "I just can't believe she's gone, I . . . I saw her a couple days ago, I mean, we were talking on the phone."

"About . . ." Bishop tentative as usual, attempted to lead her.

"Um. I don't know," Clara used her sleeve to hide the growing number of tears that were rolling down her face. It bothered him, especially today, he scanned the room quickly, and deftly presented Clara with the entire box, "thanks," she said in a near whisper, "I'm sorry, it's just . . . now I remember, we were talking about this project we'd collaborated on in college, there was, uh this guy, well, we both had a crush on him, a professor, Andy Daniels who uh, works at City College, and um, she mentioned she saw him the other day in a bar we've been hanging out lately at, uh, you know, the one that's made to look like a nail saloon on fourteenth street?"

He and Bishop exchanged a look, as they both had no idea which hangout she was talking about, "uh, you'll have to be more specific, neither of us frequent that neighborhood."

"Sure," Clara smiled briefly, "it's the beauty spot, or, um the beauty bar?"

"That would have been, uh, Thursday night?"

Clara nodded her head and grabbed another handful of tissues.

"Um," he pseudo-sneezed into his hand, "do you mind?" He started to stand, "I have . . . allergies, can I, uh get a glass of water or, uh use your bathroom?"

"Oh, yeah," Clara stated absentmindedly.

With that, he quickly toured the small unit, heading for the tiny half bath first. The excuse was easy, it wasn't a lie, he had allergies to cats, and his eyes had started stinging about two minutes into their interview. The need to move, the need to inspect, the need to understand, (the need to get away from Bishop), it overwhelmed him all at once, and before he knew it, he made a quick observation of Raja's medicine cabinet. It was no secret that you could learn quite a bit from a person by checking out what they'd managed to store on the interchangeable metallic shelves.

Upon first glance, Clara's vanity was about average for a Manhattan woman, she purchased name-brand facial cleaners, and went generic on the hair gel. Birth control pills, cinnamon flavored floss, toothpaste with whitener, and a quick peak into the bedroom proved that she spent more of her salary on footwear than on any other household item.

The kitchen remained for the most part unused, he expected to see take-out in the fridge, and was correct in his assumption. This girl didn't cook, not a spice to be found in any cabinet, and a clear absence of cooking utensils, just one of the many metrosexual women living in the city. He had to laugh, because Eames, who he never really considered to be part of the vast throng of female metrosexuals, her kitchen was not that different from Clara's. But Eames was that rare breed, a woman who didn't fit in the standard mold. It's why he, uh, why he… (don't even go there his brain whispered back).

While skirting around in the background, he listened selectively to the conversation between Raja and Bishop. He knew from their vantage point, save when he closed the bathroom door, he had been visible. Bishop did the bare minimum of distracting, and he returned glass in hand, pretending to squelch another sneeze, "uh, thanks for the water."

Clara nodded again, a fist full of tissues, eyes red from tears.

"So, um," he looked quickly at Bishop, transmitting the 'please don't fucking interrupt me on this jaunt – I do have a point look,' "are you seeing anybody, uh, I know that you mentioned that Annette saw that guy . . ."

"Oh, no," Clara shook her head, "I'm not seeing anyone, I've been, well, I haven't been interested in trying anything, cause, uh, I had this bad break-up about a year ago."

Bishop nodded, and it was clear that she was closing down the operation, "If you think of anything else, please, let us know…" Bishop slipped Clara a NYPD business card.

"Thanks for the water," he smiled softly, setting down the empty glass in the adjoining kitchen sink.

Outside the complex building, he pulled off his jacket to combat the intense humidity, wiping his brow, he leaned down towards Bishop, "she lied."

Bishops expression tightened, and a crease line intensified in the middle of her forehead, "about what?"

"Birth control pills," he mentioned simply, "her prescription is current."

"But why would she lie about . . ." Bishop stopped mid-sentence.

"Let's go track him down."

* * *

Within hours of tracking down Dr. Andy Daniels, in his tiny academic office off of 160 Convent Avenue, Goren drew a mini-flashback to the first time he met Nicole Wallace on the campus of Hudson University. It was something about the way the buildings were set up, the smell of books combined with that of age-old furniture, years of microscopic dust-mites and industrial strength cleaners.

Daniels proved to be less than helpful, overtly so, and with that he and Bishop lured him to the eleventh floor only under the pretense of a pseudo threat. Dr. Daniels was a married man, and they had just enough information to lead him to believe that they could make his life very difficult, since his wife was unaware of his double life.

"You've got a really great gift Mr., I mean, uh, Dr. Daniels." Goren narrowed his eyes.

"Let's get this over with," Daniels growled, "I don't need you fucking around with my head, you know why I'm here, so let's get on it."

"I know guys like you, you have uh, you have a way with the ladies," Goren winked and hovered in close, just enough to blot his partner out of Daniels peripheral, and especially close enough to be right up in his face.

As usual, it worked, Daniels scowled and pitched backwards a step, "what, what are you, . . . you need to get out of my personal space."

"Is that what you said to her?"

"Her?"

"Annette," Goren smiled wider, "you know, one of your, uh, your college minions?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"That's interesting," Bishop interceded, "That's not what Clara Raja told us."

"Clara?" Daniels laughed, "Where do you pull these names?"

"What I don't get, is why you chose to settle down in the first place, I mean, look," Goren smirked waving his empty ring finger in his face, "you didn't have to go down the rabbit hole."

"Fuck you," Daniels smiled right back at him, and it was the kind of smile that flashed a bright neon 'danger' warning, "at least I won't be stewing in a nursing home like you, begging the nurse aids for a hand job."

"Ouch," Goren laughed, glancing quickly to see if Bishop had his back, or rather, if she was still in the game.

"We know your habits Doctor," Bishop added plainly, "we have more than one party who would be happy to attest to your multiple affairs."

"You like them young," Goren said, "is that because they're more impressionable?"

Daniels flashed his warning smile yet again, "you don't know what you are talking about . . . and I won't take your bait."

"Your wife," Goren needled right back, "she wasn't fresh and exciting anymore? Then there was Annette, but after a bit, she couldn't fit the bill either?" Goren found himself on his feet again, pacing, unable to deactivate his nervous energy, his left fingertips were sweating slightly and he found himself rubbing the tips together in a repetitive motion, his right hand furiously scratching at the back of his neck, "why wasn't your wife good enough for you? Was it a commitment thing? A sexual addiction? I don't get it, she's attractive, intelligent . . . and then, what? Annette wanted more? Annette found out you were fucking other women too? She threatened you . . . that she'd tell the school to tell your wife, to tell . . ."

"I'm done here," Daniels pushed away violently from the interrogation table, "Clearly, you have nothing on me, save that I have multiple sexual partners. You either think I'm stupid, or that I'm guilty, or both. But I don't give a fuck, so the next time you feel like displacing your anger on me, find some other guinea pig," Daniels flashed his eyes at Goren, "and if you do want to ask me anything else, you can do so with my lawyer present."

"We'll be seeing you soon," Goren goaded back.

"Not soon enough, you abusive SOB," Daniels glowered.

"Detective," Bishop warned in a low voice.

"Can't control your partner?" Daniels laughed as he opened the interrogation room door, "no surprise there . . . he's out of control."

Suddenly, after Daniels left the room, he found himself cloistered with Bishop, her body slight against the grey repetitive patterns of the interrogation room walls.

"What is going on?" Bishop asked, "I'm not going to deal with you acting psycho on me again."

He shook his head, and began straightening a stack of files on the edge of the table.

"No, no, no," she added, inching in front of the doorway, "last time it was a white board, then I got caught up in one of your tirades with McVee over the child support issue, you know when that techno geek was playing you . . . you were just like this, flipping out even on the main floor, I saw you beam _her_ chair with a faxed report."

He didn't need this, so he tried to be about his business, moving towards the door.

"You don't get it," her eyes were locked on to his, "I'm not taking this bullshit anymore! Believe me, I can't wait for your partner to walk through that door. Then I can get back to a regular assignment, with anyone, anyone who doesn't hate my guts, who doesn't compare me to his goddamned perfect former partner. You are clearly hating your job right now, taking it out on me, or any suspect, and the shrink isn't working Goren, and your partner could be out for another 6-8 weeks which is normal after delivery – so you've got to work with me, or I'm out."

He nodded.

"You have got some serious issues. Serious issues – and don't forget, even though I'm not Eames, I'm a goddamned detective too."

With that there was nothing left to say. They cleared their paperwork out of the room and both left without a word as they went to their respective desks.

A mere half-hour passed cloaked in utter silence when a voice cut through his thoughts and about dropped him off his chair.

"Hey there," Deakins walked quickly by his desk and rapped at the surface. Goren knew what that meant. He walked slowly in Deakins wake towards the captain's office.

"How is she?"

"Excuse me?" He blinked a few times trying to figure out who Deakins' was referring to . . .

"Alex."

"Oh, uh, I think she' been very busy, uh surrounded by family, uh and her nephew."

"Seen Skoda lately?" Deakins queried, while seating himself behind the enormous pile of paperwork that was taking over his desktop.

He shook his head.

Deakins, "Go see him Bobby, life's rough, and this job is even rougher. It'll take it's toll on you."

He watched as Deakins pretended to delve into the stack of papers; the reading glasses were on, but they were lowered so Deakins could peer beyond the top of the lenses every now and again.

"And in the end, it's not worth it," Deakins quickly glanced back down, "'been through some rough times, you know . . . the job, well, it meant so much to me . . . but in the end, I know who'll be around for me – so for god's sake Bobby don't put the job first."

* * *

When he got home, he was beyond exhausted. His feet ached, his mind buzzed and blurred. He actually felt as if every cell in his body was pulsating on some foreign frequency. He needed to sleep, he needed to pass out on his bed and go away for a very long time. He ignored his vibrating cell phone and went directly to his bedroom to start his nightly ritual. On his way to the bedroom he tried to ignore the glowing red light from his home line/answering machine, the one that blinked incessantly.

He couldn't get his tie off fast enough, or hang it up in it's correct ordered space, slip out of his shoes and socks, (almost there), then he freed himself of his dress pants and things were immediately better. There was something about dress pants that made him feel like he was at work or on display.

Suddenly he heard his cell phone spit and spin loudly against his wood dresser. He knew who was calling, she'd called him earlier, but he was too tired to look. He was afraid to look, because then he'd worry. He'd need to connect with her . . . but he couldn't. He'd fucked that up a while back and now he was convinced that he should just let it be, let it be until Eames walked through the doors of elevator of the eleventh floor. He lied to himself that it would be simple. They'd go back to how it was before the pregnancy, before they crossed the line, before they exposed all those feelings and emotions to one another. It would be okay.

He'd almost made it. He was so close to bed, his brain was ready to shut down. But then, in the shower, (a place where relaxation should have taken place), as the hot water poured over his body it came to him ever so suddenly, such that he fucking panicked: Deakins didn't get him, Bishop couldn't and wouldn't, Nicole Wallace wanted to, but even though she was closer to getting him than most, it didn't matter because Nicole wasn't capable of making any meaningful connection to anyone, she was a brilliant sociopath at best. He'd had mentors like Declan Gage, but that type of relationship mirrored more of what he shared with his former captain than anything else. Many of his friends, Lewis included, were both bemused and confused by many of his actions, Dr. Skoda was getting paid to understand him. His mother and brother could give a fuck. And then there was Eames. Where did she fit on the spectrum? She was light years from anyone else, and further more, he knew deep down in the smallest chamber of his heart, he knew that she had the one thing that no one else in his life had ever been able to give him.

So if Nicole was a sociopath, i.e. void of human empathy, was he too? Nicole had been burned beyond belief, she never let anyone in and was incapable of letting anyone in . . . and now, after everything that had goddamned transpired, was he too? If he couldn't let Eames in . . . than what was the fucking point?

Nausea. Nausea and shortness of breath, followed by a strange lightheadedness . . . so it was true, Eames was the only one that had that special connection.

"_When did you fall in love with me?"_

_"Do you remember when you had that huge freak out in our favorite conference room?"_

_"Which one?" he frowned._

_"Well, that's true," her smile widened, "you've had a few . . . but I'm talking about the one when you went off at Carver and Deakins in nearly the same breath."_

_"Tyrone Cliff's case," he shook his head as he spoke._

_"Yup."_

_"That sure got ugly," he mused._

_"Yup. But your passion for fairness, your ability to channel your emotions when you needed to . . . at the time I remember it was the first time that I really 'got' you," Eames shivered slighty, "and with that, I understood that I didn't really want to 'get' anybody else."_

Eames was the only one that had that special connection. Eames 'got' him.

He was able to get out of the shower just in time to vomit in the toilet, and when he felt grounded enough, he clambered quickly out of the bathroom – as far away as he could from the hard, unforgiving tile floor and eased his way onto the bed. He passed out on his pillow before he had the chance to rinse the nasty taste of bile out of his mouth.

TBC

* * *

A.N. Holy shit! Did I just hear that Goren is coming back to L&O?

Oh, and thanks for reading. Okay, Eames . . . are you coming back too?


	24. Aren't you forgetting something?

_Chapter Twenty-four_

"Are there things that you like to do, um . . . hobbies?" Skoda squinted his eyes as if he were at a loss of words, "anything that you like to do outside of work?"

"I like to read, I like walking," Goren cleared his throat, "I like to walk and enjoy, you know, enjoy the city."

"Anything else?"

"Bookstores," Goren looked down at his feet again, uncertain why he'd come voluntarily to see Dr. Skoda for a third session, "used bookstores, obscure or hard to find books, or I like visiting the branches of the New York public library."

"You're a bit of an enigma detective." Skoda scratched at the back of his head with the back of his pen, "and, uh, before your 'interest' in your partner detective Eames, or before you were partnered with Eames, did you have any additional hobbies besides what you just relayed?"

"Are you asking if I had other girlfriends?" Goren pronounced quietly.

"Well, to be honest detective," Skoda smiled, "normal hobbies usually include the pursuit of connection to another human, . . . or avoidance of that connection by finding alternative paths, a.k.a. drugs, alcohol and an assortment of compulsive behaviors."

"I had a few girlfriends," Goren found himself wanting to clear his throat again, but swallowed instead, his voice still not his own, "I enjoyed the New York nightlife with them . . . dating, dancing, dining and such."

"Were they serious relationships?"

He nodded, "on principle I take relationships seriously . . . and I, uh, wouldn't have asked them out if I didn't feel that they had, uh . . . potential, I guess," he stopped again and rubbed his upper lip, (now a bit shaggier than he'd like), "or were you asking about whether the relationships were sexual?"

"All information that you can provide me is helpful," Skoda noted, nodding quickly as to elicit more information, the pen busily flying across the white notepad.

"The relationships progressed as such," Goren scratched the back of his neck, avoiding any unnecessary eye contact.

"But," Skoda noted, "they didn't work out. I mean, you are no longer seeing any of these women, I'm assuming, only because you are seeing your partner, uh . . . one that is a detective no less," Skoda smiled broadly again.

Goren nodded but added, "It's true that I wasn't seeing another woman when I started seeing Eames, but, uh, I don't date more than one woman at a time . . . it's uh, a personal policy, it's not, uh fair . . . and I, well, Eames and I, uh, I think that has," Goren paused, "in regards to the situation with my partner, I am no longer breaking any NYPD rules."

"You," Skoda looked up from the pad, "you broke it off with your partner?"

"Yes." Goren said simply

Skoda squinted again, and tapped his pen three times against the white pad, "why would you say, or rather," Skoda looked up, "why are the relationships not working?"

* * *

_Why are the relationships not working?_

It was the question that remained at the forefront of his brain. It was with him now as he walked up the steps to St. Dominic's and quietly ushered himself through the rather modest vestibule and into one of the back row pews.

Within seconds he was nearly bowed over by the rush of memories that suddenly flooded his senses. It was the lack of natural light, much of which was imbued with soft hues after being filtered through stain glass windows, the smell of residual incense that clung to old fabrics and banners that graced the area around the granite alter. The aroma of melted wax; the burning votives flames danced rhythmically in the low light.

His head was spinning, as if he were transported to a different time and place entirely. He'd spent so much time here as a youth, and he'd prayed in the most authentic manner to the virgin mother, the very one who stood silently in statue form, cradling her son, serene eyes and gentle face, so calm above a mess of white votives.

The silent burning vigil, the sounds of rosary beads being kneaded between the fingers of so many older women from the community, (they were always women he'd remembered thinking; so devoted and true . . . )

He genuflected and made the sign of the cross as he stood up slowly, unconsciously fingering his bill clip as he walked reverently towards her . . . towards the virgin mother and kneeled down, his head lowered, raising his eyes only to slip a few bills into the donation can as he reached over to light a candle.

'_Waiting_' his mind said, '_waiting and watching_.' It was the nature of the vigil lights, and here under the protection of Mary, that he found himself lighting a candle again – but this time for a slightly different reason.

He'd been told as a young alter boy why men and women from all over the Brooklyn neighborhood would come in and light a candle, (after a making a small donation of course to the virgin mother or another saintly icon), it was indicative that such a person was seeking a favor with whatever iconic statue lay before him or her.

And there were many saints, (_Joseph, Christopher, Anthony _and_ Francis_ to name a few), and they all had their pedestals in the nave and transepts of the church.

But he always came to her, to the virgin Mary, to ask her for a favor. It was a time when he held his faith in her, as she was such a lovely woman, and one that clearly cherished and protected her son, (_well, her son was the son of god after all_), and even though he didn't fit the bill, he knew only of Mary's kindness and sacrifice – so he prayed to her on many occasions so that she might send her love and protection his way. He'd prayed, and nearly begged her to come down and take care of him, he _knew_ she had the power to protect him, he _knew_ that if she had the time, she would heal his mother too. _Everything would be right again . . . like it had been in the past. _

Now his prayer was for something different, as it wasn't for protection. In his damaged mind he couldn't actually describe or dissect the reasons for why he was lighting the candle, (he could only conclude that he'd felt drawn to Mary again and that the lighting of the candle was done in almost a mechanical way – or rather, he was on autopilot.) Was it for his lost soul? Was it for showing solidarity unto the person for which his prayer was offered? Was it to go back to the past, or was it to move forward into the future?

When he dared to steal a peak at the virgin Mary's simple and honest face, he was reminded of the role she played to him as a child: her face spoke of kindness, and in her simple smile there was a deep and caring warmth, her eyes held empathy and understanding, (so for him, she represented unconditional love), the love that his mother would have given him if only, if only . . . she wasn't so ill.

And to this date, the only one who had come close to showing him a similar kind of understanding, i.e., warmth and unconditional love, was the person for whom he was now lighting the candle for . . . or upon reflection, was he lighting the candle for himself?

Hopeful, watching and waiting; waiting for the signs to come together. Waiting and yearning for his partner to return, hoping that she'd still be the same Eames he'd been partnered with. Then once again, _everything would be right again . . . like it had been in the past._

_

* * *

_

The Indian summer was coming to a close, and he walked the line between the shadows that the buildings cast across the uneven sidewalks. He was but a few blocks from his house, and he was physically and mentally exhausted. Despite the sizeable distance, he walked from the church, partially to clear his head after he'd been embroiled in such deep reflection. But the hour had finally come to pass, and now it was time to return to his future and leave the past behind.

Less than a block from his house, he decided to pick up his dry cleaning, quietly cursing when he realized that he was a few dollars short. It came down to a few bills, bills that were now safely tucked away in a metallic donation box to the right of the virgin mother's statue. He hated credit and debit cards, it was probably his obsessive compulsive personality disorder, or some other anxiety-driven paranoid belief, but right now he'd rather walk away without his set of work clothes.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he mumbled lamely, before pushing the door open and returning to the sidewalk that would lead him back to his apartment.

He was two steps out the door when he felt someone tugging on the fabric of his dress shirt. He craned his neck quickly to the left just before his heart stopped beating.

"Hi."

He was speechless.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Eames," he breathed. It was the first time he'd seen her since, since . . . and now she was Eames again. Only Eames, no baby tucked up inside her womb.

She arched her eyebrows and nodded her head once again towards the dry cleaner's door, "are you going to pickup?"

He was baffled. What was she talking about? And more importantly, why was she here?

"I, uh," his eyes were searching aimlessly, "Eames, I was . . ."

"You went in empty handed," Eames frowned, "and now you're still empty handed."

"I was short," he shrugged, "but . . ."

"Jesus Christ," Eames swore, digging into her sport jacket pocket, "you look like hell."

He shook his head rapidly, "No, Eames, I'm not accepting. I, uh, I ended up spending my wad on something I was expecting to . . ."

"You're a mess," Eames repeated again, hooking her right arm around his and dragging him down the sidewalk, "I'm buying dinner, and you can't refuse."

When he heard the senior partner tone in her voice, his heart swam, flipped and jumped for joy.

"Okay." he submitted quickly.

"Thanks for the card and goodie basket."

"Oh," he smiled, "did you like it?"

"Yeah," she grinned, "it was very, uh . . . you."

He smiled again, a genuine smile, something that he hadn't done for so long, his face actually ached, (yes, the very same facial muscles had been sadly unused for weeks).

They sat down at one of the worst Chinese take out joints ever. He knew this to be a fact as he'd had food poisoning from this place on more than one occasion. Thank god Eames had an iron constitution.

"Don't eat anything that hasn't been cooked through and through," he warned, "if it's not piping hot, I'd avoid it too."

"You mean that 'heating lamp warm' won't do?" Eames eyes twinkled. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Eames looked fucking great.

"How do you feel?" he asked tentatively.

"I'm still not myself, I get tired after standing on my feet for a while" she admitted, while scarfing on some General Mao's spicy beef #2, "but I'm just going nuts around the house."

"How's your nephew?"

"Cute as hell," she answered quickly, "but then again, I think that's because I can walk away from him anytime I please."

The next question was burning a hole in his mouth, that or it was the side of pickled hot peppers he'd ordered. But just like old times, Eames started to read his mind in that uncanny way that only she could do . . .

"I talked to the captain for almost an hour today," she managed between bites, "well, maybe not that long, but, I was hoping he'd tell me I could check in today," she paused and started cleaning her front teeth with the tip of her tongue, "he said that it's still premature and that I need to be cleared by my doctor first."

He nodded, "you don't want to come back too soon, the job is physical and uh, well, Eames you gave birth only weeks ago."

"I think Deakins is just playing it safe because it ended up being a c-section, and with all the crazy lawsuits these days," Eames shook her head, "I mean, I'm tired, but . . . I have an appointment at the end of the week because I'm antsy. I just want the clearance – I need something to do, and for god's sake I miss rounding up the bad guys with you."

He wanted to cry – to cry from pure joy. He wasn't superstitious, his intellectual prowess and firm belief in the world of the rational and had long since replaced the concept of god or religion for that matter . . . but sometimes, just sometimes, he couldn't escape the culture of his childhood, and right now, the virgin Mary had delivered.

TBC

* * *

AN: Now, will someone please tell me that someone will deliver Katheryn Erbe to signing on the dotted line for the final season of CI? Don't make me light a votive on her behalf.

As to the story: I'm finally approaching the finish line . . . maybe two more chapters? Maybe one? Thanks for hanging in there. . . MDH


	25. Into the realm of dreams

_Chapter Twenty-five _

_Time passed and everything was right again . . . as it was in the past._

The world seemed brighter, and the streets of New York held promise; the sights, sounds and smells were less agitating. Moreover, Goren's tendencies to fall into periods of paranoia and suffer from untimely anxiety attacks slowly ebbed to a manageable level. He was sleeping at night again, and starting to fall into a sleeping pattern that allowed him to dream, (and even remember a few dreams for that matter).

His energy had returned, and he'd started eating better meal portions, that which he could thank Eames for, (he likened her to a little hummingbird – who crashed when she got hypoglycemic). It turns out that a hypoglycemic Eames was a very bad situation indeed, but now that he had his life back on track, he was able to put his extra energy and attentiveness into being able to gauge her better. Oh, and he wanted her to be happy, he wanted her to stay with him . . . and to never, ever leave him on his own again.

With the future at their doorstop, and after almost a year of general confusion, they were finally back in synch. And without surprise, he found that returning to the norm was pure bliss. In fact, he wrote off the crazed nine months or so of her pregnancy, (and their past relationship), as a period of growth. He'd even managed to convince himself that the struggles they'd faced had brought them closer together, and that the bond that they now shared appeared to be stronger than it had ever been.

So throughout a most beautiful NYC autumn, their strictly police partnership had rekindled into a second honeymoon, a renaissance . . . it was as if they'd turned the page into this new golden era with no real reason to look back. In fact, they never did. Not a word was spoken between them about the months during Eames' pregnancy: the close proximities, the gentle touching, the sexual encounters, the informal sharing of feelings and thoughts that surpassed the narrow confines of their working world, the intimacy of him suckling colostrum from her breasts, to the relaying of the most prized words of all – I love you.

Indeed, it was the elephant in the room.

Then one particular December afternoon, long after the leaves fell from the branches, and as the weather turned over into the unpredictable; the bubble burst.

It all came to pass as they were investigating an interesting character by the name of Harvey Gruenwald: a strange, mousy creature that dabbled in PR and charity events. It seemed likely that Gruenwald might be a player in what 'appeared to be foul play' orchestrated by an even stranger character . . . the deceased's widow.

"Well I'm starting to see how Harvey does it; hubris, flattery – a big part of it," he gesticulated broadly, playing into the mind and mannerisms of the curious character Gruenwald, "and the facial tick, its uh, . . . disarming. The more anxious he gets, the worse it gets. And if it's like most simple motor ticks, than it's developed in early childhood." (Yes he was rambling, and the nice thing was that he didn't have to filter everything that came out of his mouth. Less than six months ago, this would have been a totally different story.)

But every great honeymoon period must come to an end, and the official end of their blissful return came as Eames was reporting a relevant piece of information to Deakins; i.e., one processed copy of a check that Eames had written during her last two months of pregnancy, in which she apparently attended a First Responder's benefit.

"Five hundred bucks." Deakins looked surprised (and who wouldn't be on the measly salary they both were issued every two weeks), "who's Terry?"

"My date," Eames replied simply.

It was hard not to notice Deakins' double take, or the look on Deakin's face that might have easily been interpreted as, 'you go girl.'

"Well, what was I supposed to do while I was pregnant, stay home and knit?" Eames shrugged her shoulders, and Goren tried not to look directly at her, or show any signs of the searing surprise and extreme jealousy that was starting to take over his body.

He lifted his hands up reflexively and tried to mask his irritation as Eames handed him the photocopy. He knew his ears were burning red . . . but what was much worse, was that he knew that Eames had read everything she needed to. The elephant in the room just woke up and was now starting to stomp all over the goddamned place.

"Check the endorsement," she nodded her head sharply.

Goren shook his head, "Bergdorf Goodman's?"

With that, they left One Police Plaza and went to a steep men's clothing store in midtown east, just shy of the park between Madison and 5th avenue.

The car ride was a straight shot up north, but traffic could prolong the five-mile drive up to thirty minutes. Sitting in the driver's seat, the minutes ticked by at a plodding pace. Inside her Ford Explorer, it was painfully quiet as an early evening cold drizzle started to streak the windows. He watched the short city blocks blur by in succession with his face intentionally turned away from her. He was afraid to look at her, afraid that he'd say something careless because he was still distressingly jealous and angered by her actions.

_Why would she go out with another man so soon after they'd stopped seeing each other? Did she . . . or rather, was she still seeing him? Did she have sex with him? Did she let him taste her colostrums too? _They were his initial pained thoughts, primitive at best, but honest and heartfelt. And he felt crushed, so much so that he found it suitable to sulk in front of her.

The rain picked up, and he cracked his window to catch the subtle scent of the fresh ions in the air. Shutting the window a few seconds later, he let the sound of the droplets hitting the windshield distract his mind and wounded heart.

Their investigation at Bergdorf Goodman's proved to be fruitful and rather brief, for after probing the manager on duty, he soon found himself back in her passenger's seat on a slightly shorter jaunt to a senior center in Astoria. _Time is relative_, he mused . . . for example, the time spent in the clothing store passed quickly, most likely because they were snapped back into their smooth detective routines. And now back in the car, time took a turn for the worst, cloaked in a palpable silence.

From the senior center to tracking down Esther Gruenwald in Queens, Eames finally decided to combat the utter silence that cocooned them in the vehicle by openly venting, she rattling off about how irritated she was that her hard earned money was spent paying off a debt that purchased dressing accessories for celebrities. For some inane reason, he felt like baiting her, informing her that she should not have been so naïve to support a charity that she hadn't fully researched.

He knew that baiting her was bullshit. He knew it primarily because he knew where the impetus to say such a thing was originating from - from a deep jealousy born in his heart. More primitive thinking: all born out of protecting his soft sensitive side. _You went with someone else when you shouldn't have, and this Eames, this is how you are rewarded. _

And when all was said and done, and he'd decidedly been an aloof ass all night, she asked him if he wanted a lift back to the station. They were in Queens, so it would be silly for her to drive all the way back into town. She wasn't a goddamned chauffer after all . . .

"I'll take the subway," he forced a smile.

"You sure?" she squinted back at him, a deep mistrust painted on her expression.

He nodded definitively, unbuckling his seatbelt while simultaneously pulling up the files at his feet.

"It's late," she mumbled, "I can't believe you have the energy to keep going."

He shrugged and turned his face away from her, as it was getting so fucking hard to hide his disappointment.

And that was that.

* * *

On the subway ride to the station, his emotions were eating him alive. Eames' revelation about 'Terry' was piercing his soft, vulnerable insides. And truthfully, these days it wasn't easy getting past his crusty exterior, his skin was thick, years of dealing with a dysfunctional family will do that to you.

As the city passed by above him, he tried perusing through the police files, but his brain was racing – racing to places he never wanted it to go.

_You fucking idiot. You broke up with her, and you did it because it was necessary - so stop trying to convolute the issue. You know damn well that you can't give her what she needs, and maybe, just maybe, this guy Terry can. You've got to fucking grow up and let go. And if you do really love her, you need to look out for her . . . so for fuck's sake, just let go, she's better off now._

So he let it all go, he pushed it away, raised his head and did what he could to mentally reinforce his noble actions. Inside his tough exterior, his heart continued to ache.

* * *

It was less than a week before Christmas. The urban signs were ubiquitous, now they just needed nature to blanket the streets in white. And then there was the other complication of the yearly, and awful he might add, obligatory departmental Christmas party in which most of the older detectives got shit-faced within an hour. Perhaps they shouldn't always hold the party at the same Irish pub, but breaking tradition was clearly not in Deakins' blood.

At the party, despite the obvious fact that they were partners, 'minorities stick together' was their secret pact: Eames because she was a woman, and need he say that he wasn't part of the Irish majority?

"This is bullshit," Eames muttered nursing her beverage, "same fucking thing every year . . . as if I haven't been exposed to a scene like this enough in my life."

"Don't go yet," he hedged nervously, his finger rubbing 'round the edges of his coaster, "I hate this party too, but you're the only reason I've got to stay."

She snorted, and pushed the rest of the alcohol down, "fuck it, you're a big boy . . . you can fend."

"Tell me what you really think Eames," he tensed his shoulders before releasing air sharply through his nose, "I know I've been a real, uh . . ."

"Asshole." Eames finished the sentence without missing a beat; she pounded her glass down on the bar and slid off her uneven barstool, "Merry Christmas."

He watched helplessly as she wove through the bar, nodding her farewells to a handful of their eleventh floor compadres. He clenched his jaw in frustration and swung his head around quickly to remove her from his view, only to quickly double back when he heard another male colleague oodle, "Leaving so soon, Alex?"

Fucking Reilly he thought, he wants to nail her so bad that he doesn't even bother to take it down a notch. Has he even heard of subtlety?

He watched at a distance as she pushed her way out of the bar, and as the door closed shut, he felt a sense of emptiness hollow out in his chest. A half second later he decided to leave.

He started down her path slowly, not even bothering to say farewells, Deakins gave him a nod and lifted his drink, he tried to smile, but it probably looked more like a grimace.

Suddenly, he rushed outside to see if he could catch up with her, only to find Reilly two steps ahead of him, trying the same tactic.

"Jesus, she's quick."

He refused to dialogue back.

Reilly laughed sharply, "Good luck to you too."

"She says you remind her of everything she hates about her family," he commented smugly.

"Maybe so," Reilly gestured inappropriately, "but it's better than being the department freak show."

He shook his head and started to laugh menacingly, "and insulting her partner is the best way to get in her pants? You're a fucking idiot."

With that he squared his shoulders away from Malachy's Pub and pulled his scarf tight around his neck before hailing a cab.

* * *

It was nearly Christmas, (a few days before), one of the two big ones: Christmas and Easter. And this year, considering everything they'd been through, he wanted to give her something that was meaningful, even on his modest budget.

Moping around in his sterile apartment, he'd been reminded of the time he'd spent in her bedroom, her simple surroundings which had not evolved since the loss of Joe. And even though he'd failed at creating a functional relationship with her, he truly did want to help her move on, continue to evolve, grow and eventually find love with the right person.

All of this pondering brought him back to one of their earlier cases that happened to take them to a local art museum in Troy, New York. He was taken back to a youthful looking Eames, and how her face had beamed when she stared at, (what eventually turned out to be a fake, but good rendition of) a Claude Monet painting. He teased her lightly when she'd professed her love for Impressionism. "It's too pretty," he'd ribbed her gently, secretly wanting to blurt out "but it has nothing on you, Eames."

So with the little/no hours he allowed himself in pursuit of leisure activities, (post the working day that is), he spent those few extra hours in the Chatham Square branch of the New York public library off of St. James Place. Eames jokingly referred to this as his second home, (One Police Plaza being his first and his apartment coming in at a close third).

Cloistered in the familiar and rather quiet walls of the NY Public library, he absorbed books that focused on Monet in order to pick the correct print to adorn her bedroom wall. He considered that based on her comments at the museum in Troy, that Eames was drawn to Monet's later work. He also considered the colors of the walls and textiles already present in Eames' bedroom . . . and soon he found himself drawn to the series that was on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Fine Arts. His detective like research ensured he could get a relatively good quality print on fine acid-free matte paper – and his buddy Lewis knew a guy, who knew a guy, that could frame the print so that it meet his rather narrow expectations.

"So who is this for?" Lewis raised an eyebrow, "it came out nice, huh?"

"My mother," he lied, nodding his head, pulling out his bill clip before exchanging the tender to Lewis, "tell James he pays close attention to detail."

"Nice tip," Lewis nodded, "he'll appreciate."

"So, can I borrow the old beastie?"

"Oh sure, yeah, sorry I shoulda offered. Lord knows you don't wanna heft that on the Metro."

Smiling, he took the keys from Lewis as he clapped him on the back, "Thanks man, as usual, I owe ya."

* * *

He made sure she was home before he set out in one of Lewis's old clunkers. In addition, he also led on that he wanted to drop something by . . .

"Are you giving me my Christmas present early?" Eames asked in her familiar suspicious detective tone.

"Yes," he sighed, "you found me out."

"We usually exchange gifts at work."

"This one is too big."

"Really? Now you've peaked my interest."

He smiled into the phone.

"How far out are you?" Eames queried.

"I'm on my way."

"Shit."

"What?" (Was Terry there?)

"I haven't wrapped your present yet. Can you take your time parallel parking?"

"Yes."

And with that, the time had come, he was now at her door, the print wrapped loosely in simple brown packaging paper, all awkward, bulky and large.

Eames covered her mouth when she opened the door and waved him inside.

"It's, uh, . . ." he started, but stopped as she started peeling the sides of wrap from the red twine.

"Oh my god," Eames eyes popped, before she turned into him and drew him into a tight hug, "it's . . . it's so beautiful . . ." she spoke into his ribcage.

"It's uh," he continued, "or, it was inspired by the fleeting effects of nature . . . seemingly innocent, ingenious, and instinctual, and uh, I began to see the connections between the piece and uh, the beauty that is you, Alex."

She was silent.

"Well, uh, that and I remembered how much you liked it."

She looked confused.

"The . . . the museum in Troy?"

"Oh, right," Eames whispered, her eyes sucked deep into the print, "I've never owned anything like this . . ."

"Monet drew inspiration from his water gardens in Giverny, a, uh, a world that excluded all but the unsullied beauty of nature. I can see why, um, why you are drawn to it. I'm starting to appreciate it more every day."

"Jesus, Bobby," Eames breathed in visibly, "where am I going to hang this?"

"I was thinking in your bedroom."

She nodded quickly before running into her bedroom. Moments later she came out with a very small soft pouch, "this is for you."

"Thank you," he ran his fingers repeatedly over the soft fabric, before slipping his fingers into the enclosure.

A silver chain slipped from the pouch with a simple iconic charm – the Virgin Mary's profile imprinted aesthetically to an oval design.

"I followed you that day," Eames whispered as she came a step closer, "the day I tracked you down at the cleaners. I was," she stopped smiling and lowering her eyelids, "I was bored out of my mind and missing the job, . . . and you of course."

He cocked his head to the side, a bit surprised to find out that Eames had essentially been stalking him that day.

Eames pulled in closer, until she was nearly in his arms, her finger slowly pushed the charm about in his much larger palm, "my father gave this to me when I earned my blues," she looked right into his eyes, "to protect me of course."

"I can't take this Eames," he whispered.

"No," her eyes still locked on to his, "I can't not let you take it. It's the only way I'll sleep at night."

His brows creased, and he was suddenly distracted and intrigued by the knowledge that she had trouble sleeping too.

"Maybe if I'd only given this to Joe," she spoke softly into his chest, "but . . . I won't make the same mistake twice."

He pressed his lips into the top of her head, "Thank you sweetheart."

"Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Eames."

And when all was said and done, it was one of the most meaningful holidays he'd experienced in his life. With his perspective back in tact, miniscule issues that revolved around the unnamed Terry became meaningless. The past was the past, and it was time to live in the now.

So he spent the evening helping her hang the Monet print. And afterwards, on his drive back to Lewis's garage he held the chain of his Christmas present tightly between his fingers. For now, the chain would represent his connection to Eames, and each night, it would live under the pillow where he laid his head to rest.

On top of that same pillow, his waking life fading into the realm of dreams . . . a place surrounded by extraordinary beauty: where Eames would be able to move away from the sorrows of her past, and where he could feel the safety and piece of mind that comes from the knowledge of true unconditional love.

THE END


End file.
